It's dangerous business...

I perched on the edge of my bed.

Our bed.

It's low to the ground, so my knees are high enough to lean on with my elbows, head resting in my sweaty palms.

I know the plan.

I've had long enough to think about it. I know it will kill you. That's the reason. Would I sacrifice this much if I didn't know what it would do to you? To us?

It's one of those dark nights, where the clouds have disappeared, but the moon and stars seemed to have been dimmed, so the only light shining through the upstairs window of the house is the orange streetlight across the road. It casts a strange glow on the wooden floors that are icy against my bare feet. I know you'll be home soon. You have night school. Learning how to speak Portugese. When you told me you had signed up, I wondered why on earth you would need to speak Portugese. You don't. You thought I would let it slide. I knew you had been restless, I was the one who suggested a night class. But Portugese? Really now, you could have picked something like a cooking class. For Italian, Mexican, Spanish food or something. But I suppose then you couldn't give me evidence. At least this way you have two hours every week away from me. With my brother.

Oh yes, I know. Of course I know. You think I don't notice his car at the end of the street? You think I don't hear your door slam and you hurry up the pavement? You tell me it's a friend you go with, someone you met in class who lives down the road. To your face, I smile, and swallow the weak lies you feed me. When you're gone, I think. I wait. At first I was mortified. My brother? I thought of how much I loved you. Love you. Because guess what sweetheart? I still do. And for the past two months and one week, my heart has been bleeding for you. Because of you. I know it's drawing to a close. But you don't know how it will end. You don't know I know. I've made it that way. The element of surprise.

The car door slams.

I pull on shoes and a jacket.

Your high heels clatter up the street.

See, the downfall of living in such a quiet neighbourhood is I can hear everything. It's almost like you want me to hear you. But now you're rounding the little corner to the pathway. You pass the letterbox and I head downstairs. As your hand reaches the doorhandle, I pull it open. Here we go. The plan is in action. There's no stopping me now.

Before you have a chance to even speak, I take your hand in mine, the way we used to do when we were only dating, and walk us towards your car. “Let's go for a drive,” I say, calmly.

Your eyes widen. You glance around nervously, and wipe your lips in such a nonchalant manner I almost believe you. I open the door for you, and close it. I want to slam it, punch it, slump over it with the window down, begging for you to end it with him so we can go back to normal, but I don't. I close it quietly, and walk around to my side. As I reverse down the driveway, I turn off the radio. You look terrified.

“How was your class tonight baby?”

“Good, thanks. How was work today?”

“It was good.”

“Where are we going?”

I don't answer. My knuckles are white on the steering wheel. There's no turning back tonight.

As we hit the freeway, my speed increases. The dial shoots up, just over the speed limit. Not too high, there is a degree of care in this.

The bend is coming up. I turn to my wife.

“Kiss me.” One last time.

She obeys, and I force into our goodbye the urgency and passion I have coursing through my veins. It's not something new, this act of love, but originality has never been my strong point. The click of my seat belt echoes as the car swings around the bend. The tree is where it should be- right in front of my car. The angle is a little off, but close enough. The crunch of metal and shattering of glass is all I can hear, though I register that she is screaming. It's taking so long. The slow motion is making the sensation lag, the anticipation is making my nerves scream. I feel my legs shatter like the glass and the pain is a brilliant red that seeps instantly through my jeans. We are flying, soaring over the cliff and I say my goodbyes in my head.

The car tumbles down the steep hill, tossing us about like salad leaves. The top half of my body is flung about, my legs stuck in a wad of twisted metal. Her seat belt holds her in place, and I close my eyes, knowing she is safe enough. As we roll, the car, now a lump of destroyed metal, the roof on my side caves in and it's over as my body is crushed.

Now you can walk hand in hand with him.

For the first time in my life today, I was asked out, and I said no.
I hated doing it.
But we had talked for like six hours the other night, and we didn't have a lot in common, he's too young and in my honest opinion, I wasn't attracted to him. I gave him a really fair shot. But I still hated shooting him down. I've had enough time to think about it, and decided I'm going to wait a little while. Dating isn't right for me right now, and neither is a quick fling. I'm having a lot of fun with my friends, no matter how much trouble we get in.
On the bright side, I said no. I've gone out with every guy thats ever asked me out before, and I've asked out a few by myself. Progress? I think yes.
I'm writing a lot lately, both Reckless and other little things, mostly short poetic stories like the Waiting Room I posted here.
I also started painting again and I have a brilliant idea for a present.

Goodnight for now, world.

The Waiting Room

The waiting room is something that will never leave your mind. You are never there for a good reason, and when you're as tightly wound as I am, each second passes like the seconds after the pin from a grenade is removed. You hold your breath without actually realising you're doing so, and the silence thuds in your ears. Every approaching footstep is one approaching you, delivering the bad news. Your head snaps up so often, you should be admitted to a ward yourself for whiplash. The squeak of plastic shoes on linoleum floors echoes in your head like a scream in a cave. My hands stretch before me. I can still see the blood under my short nails- apparently I didn't do such a good job of cleaning my hands. Another approaching squeak, and another lift of everyones heads. For I am not the only one in these unfortunately uncomfortable seats. Every face I look into looks like a mirror image of my own. These faces stare expectantly at the nurse, who is walking slowly towards us all, from beyond the swinging double doors that do not permit us to pass. Theatre- I know this from the many medical shows that flood the television these days. Each step is watched, by every pair of eyes in our macabre gathering. Who would die? Who would survive? Who would get to hear their terrible piece of news first? For it was never good news. A full recovery would drive just as insane as a horrific death. As I said, nerves are wound so tightly here that a mere nudge in any direction would explode us.We sit, impatiently waiting, all trapped in a hell our head can't hide from us. The last words said, the last mood, the memories, they all flood back now, chasing each other around in circles and making us dizzy. Or is that the fumes from the bleach used to mop the too-clean floors? Either way, here we sit, all together in our misery, yet all so very separate. No one talks; no one moves.So lost in my thoughts I am, that I don't hear my name. All I notice is every head turning towards me, and I can feel the blood leaving my head as I turn white. My eyes leave my shoes, and slowly- achingly- lift to meet the nurse's. I can't even see her. She is a green blur, and I'm sure it isn't because I'm crying. I know I'm not crying, but my vision blurs. Without being conscious of even doing so, my hand delves to my pocket and withdraws the life-saving bottle. The dark humour in my mind laughs in it's very dark manner as the thought flies around- It's only lifesaving for you my friend. And it might not even do that. All eyes are still on me and I suddenly feel a rage towards them all. Why are they staring? I swallow the pill that keeps me sane. Or close to sane. I think. And I rise from my seat to follow the nurse. My own shoes move without a sound, and, so consumed by my own thoughts, I wonder if I'm actually alive. Perhaps I'm in purgatory. Called up one by one, judged, and then sent to the firey pits of hell. I'm led through the forbidden doors, despite the thick letters in (ironically enough) dark red.A second later we turn down a corridor labelled, in the same blood-red writing, INTENSIVE CARE UNIT. My blood freezes. It is silent here. There is a faint bleeping from hundreds of machines keeping dead souls alive, but even the nurse's feet seem to glide over the floors. Endless amounts of doors flit by us like lights down a highway- one on the right, then one on the left, then one of the right, and another on the left. The sudden stop outside Room 409 paralyzes my brain. There's no more thinking now, just simple registering of facts. The door is pushed open and I'm pulled inside. The bleep of machines is louder here, but there's only one bleeping noise. There, looking like a stranger to me, lies my love. She is white, like the sheets, like the floors, ceilings and walls. Only the head of mahogany hair tells me there is someone there. The nurse is talking to me now, and my ravaged brain searches for words I know. Blood loss, brain damage, life support, choice to make... I can't make sense of these words, but then the nurse is leaving. I'm alone in this lonely room. The woman on the bed isn't mine, she belongs to no one now. I see the bandages, I see the machine keeping her alive. Being in this room is contaminating me. I can feel the weight of my impending decision crawling all over my skin, and I just want it to end. I draw close to the bed, my choice made. “Goodnight, my love, I'll see you so very soon.” I kiss her forehead, her nose and her lips, trying to find the scent I know better than anything but it's gone. She is dead now, only artificially alive. I rush from the room to call back the nurse.
*****
No one found me. The pills took their claim, mixing provocatively with the alcohol in my bloodstream. I was relieved she had left me enough to join her, and I took the whole lot. I sunk slowly into the permanent sleep, and heard her then. Her voice sang out to me, and I joined my love in the life after this one.