Forget Me

Dawn's gray light crept into the window, coldly illuminating the frantic movements of the doctors. A frenzied series of beeping accompanied the carefully calculated chaos, the shouting. Then there was silence. The doctors looked at the clock.

                The man, ragged and haggard, returned from breakfast. He felt the silence envelop him like a blanket. He'd heard it before. A scream pierced the room. Cold brown coffee washed the floor.

                It was 4:47 A.M.

--

                Two weeks. Two weeks was all it had taken. The tombstone reared before him, an ugly, unfeeling slab. It was a poor tribute to- to..

                He couldn't think. The flowers fell from his hand. Their yellow eyes stared at him accusingly. Tomorrow he would bring roses. She had never liked forget-me-nots anyways.

                He bent, his hand scooping up a mound of dirt, its fresh, heady scent seeming to taunt him. Bile rose in his throat. He slipped the ring off, set it down gently, and covered it again. What was it, closure, a way to forget? It was over, in any case. It hit him hard, and he cried.

--

                Forty-eight days had him back to forget-me-nots. Yesterday had been the wildflowers. They were still there, bright colours seeming to taunt him through their coat of frost. He set the flowers down, as always. He reached to pick up the old ones, as always. He stopped. He couldn't let them join the rainbow of the dying. It hurt too much. Boots crunched in the predawn frost as he walked away.

--

                Seven months since the accident. Each one of them had hurt. Slightly less now, maybe, as the nightmares began to smell a bit less like blood. It was raining. Simple today, just some daffodils. He brushed aside the winter's corpses, laying the new ones tenderly in the mud.

                The trees' branches hissed ominously in a sudden gust of wind. He looked up, startled. There was a girl staring at him a few aisles away, her hair burning through the rain. His heart began to beat wildly. She looked about his age, her face was slight and pretty, they could go out to coffee-

                There could be no "they". He choked back tears. Twenty minutes later he was driving on the winding back road with no recollection of how he got back to the car.

--

                37 weeks. Or was it 38? The alcohol was seeping into his brain. It was a holiday or something. He didn't care. The pain was bad today.

                The booth across him creaked. He looked up, nearly falling out of his seat with surprise. It was the girl, her hair flaming in the dim light. Her eyes were blue, piercing. But no, they were green, they were hazel. Her hair was fading..

                Her voice snapped him out of the past. It was melodic, soothing. The night deepened as it washed him away.

                The waning moon illuminated him on their walk. She was holding onto him, body pressed up against his for warmth. And he was laughing, rich and full, for the first time in forever.

--

                Morning came all too soon. He stared at her, sleep clouding his vision, mind struggling to comprehend. Her hair was magnificent in the morning sun, the natural light bringing out the honey-golds and warm embers. It splayed across the pillows like a pool of blood.