After all these years, it was me who should've died. It was all my fault, and even though everyone tells me otherwise, I played a part in his death. Every little thing reminds me of him; shoes left by the door covered in mud (because Finney - our mutt - loves walking down the field behind our apartment and heaven poured open that morning before he took him for his walk), the elevator bell ringing after 6 pm (because that would have been the time he got home from work and after that, he would do our secret knock). and my heart sinks to my stomach every time my phone chimes: what if it's you calling telling me that you're alive and where you are and that you miss me. I stopped waiting for that miracle phone call to happen when the voice on the other end said 'sorry, the number that you have called is not in service.'
I've never met anyone that has made me feel more at home than Max did. When I was with him, my vision of black and white colours disappeared; he only made me see the bright colours in life. It was on the night of the accident that he'd proposed to me (after 7 years of being in a relationship and a lifetime of growing up next to each other) and the reason we went out that night was to celebrate. I didn't find anything suspicious when Max said he wanted to go to Italy - we were planning a holiday as it was summer - but, seeing him kneel down on the gondola singing the words to my favourite song, Somebody Loves You by The Snuts.
"Never find the time to tell you, girl I love you more than life...someone loves ya, and that someone is me." His eyes sparkled with hope. It felt like all pieces of the puzzle came together. Of course, I said yes, I love him. I loved him.
The smell of alcohol and sweat reeked in the crowded club. People would bash into you, making you spill your drink all over yourself. There was this one girl, she had long black hair and wore a green mini dress. She bumped into Max and mumbled something in Italian along the lines of 'buon viaggio'. Max was wearing a white button-up shirt that had been freshly ironed with a pair of black jeans that had a tiny hole on the upper left thigh. His shoes were black but with the lights, they looked blue and he also had a tint of red on his lips from when I had kissed him after I'd screamed 'yes'. All these details I wouldn't have remembered if he were still alive; it's all the little things that you take for granted. Honesty, I guess a part of me wanted Max to die. During our mini engagement party (which only consisted of us and strangers at the club), I left to get myself another non-alcoholic drink - as I was pregnant. Nobody didn't know yet: not Max, not my parents, not my friends. I was planning to tell everyone all together at our proper engagement party back at home – and Max another jack & coke. When I got the refills, I turned back around to get back to him however, he wasn't there. Maybe he went to the bathroom.
Minutes went by and I started to worry about him. Almost breaking my neck, I was looking to my left, right, and behind. Just when I was losing hope, I found him. I found him with her, the girl in the green dress. I found him pushed up against the brick wall with her hands all over him and his hands on her shoulders. It looked like they were trying to eat each other alive. I stared and gasped. The only thought I had at that time was why? Suddenly, a great sense of anger overtook me. Without thinking, I stood up from my chair – that scraped on the floor which made a few people turn heads - and stormed over.
"What the hell Max! What is wrong with you?" Pulling the green dress girl off from him, in a disgusted tone I screamed at him; I was so angry, I couldn't cry. No reply. He just stood there, looking so out of it. When he stepped away from the walls that were supporting him, he stumbled to grab me and walk to sit down because he physically couldn't stand. This is when I realized what was going on, Max's drink had been spiked. My guess was when the girl in the green dress bumped into him, she put something in his drink. "What happened? Max tell me what happened, please." Max looked over to the green dress girl which made me tell at her. "What is wrong with you."
"Chloe, I love you," Max said before he passed out. Panicked, I grabbed my phone to dial 118 having my fingers crossed that the receptionist that picked up spoke English. In my head, all I could think to myself was he's never going to know he's going to be a dad. Our baby will never know their dad. It should've been me. It should've been.
Four months had passed since that night; Max was in a coma in the hospital (he was transferred to Royal Brompton Hospital back home in England). Every day I visited him and brought him pictures of our little boy from the scan. Every day I told him stories of us when we first started dating and when he gets out of this hospital, we will grow old together.
I was staring out the window in our apartment one evening, watching the rain fall and my phone ringing broke the silence. It was from the hospital 'please come see us, we got some news.' Was it good? Was it bad? The call didn't say.
Max had died.
