Home

November 5, 2028 - Sunday

My hands are shaking as I pour boiling water into Peter's mug, spilling droplets onto the counter. I made this mug for him in a ceramics class I took at the community college, and I gave it to him as a Christmas present. It's light blue, with our wedding date painted on it in the best cursive I could manage. He loves this mug, or at least, used to love it when his eyes still carried some sort of emotion.

I sprinkle in the crushed sleeping pills I prepared the night before and hope that the tea masks any sort of taste they might give off. I have not drugged anyone before. I don't know the rules.

Peter is still in bed, staring at the ceiling but not seeing. "I made you some tea, my love," I tell Peter. He doesn't respond. I sit on the edge of the bed, shifting his weight, and he turns his head. "You need to at least drink something. I could make you something to eat if you want," I add. He takes the mug from my hands, staring at it for a moment, and I think that he might say something, might remember that he loved it. Might remember that he loves me. Anything to give me some sort of sign that I shouldn't do this, that we can be together in the light again. But he only drinks the tea, sipping it slowly before gulping down the whole thing fast enough that it should've burned his mouth. He gives no reaction.

I leave the bedroom, my hands still shaking. I know what I must do now. It will take at least 30 minutes for the sleeping pills to kick in, and I will wait another 30 minutes before moving him. The Peter I used to know is gone, but I know how to make him come back.

Time ticks by slowly, and I end up waiting an extra 20 minutes than planned before I return to the bedroom. Peter is in the same position he was when I left, lying stiffly on his back, arms straight at his side, except his eyes are closed. I touch his face, running my fingers over the soft stubble that has formed along his jaw. "It will all be over soon," I whisper.

Getting him to the garage is not easy. His body is limp and heavy, and I end up dragging him down the rest of the stairs. It doesn't bother me because I know he doesn't feel it. He doesn't feel anything anymore.

I fold down the seats in the back of the car and lay him down. I climb into the front seat and turn the key in the ignition before rolling all the windows down. After clambering into the backseat with Peter, I drape his arm over my body and close my eyes. He's warm, and I can feel his chest rising and falling against my own. "We're okay now," I say. I touch his face again. "We'll be okay."

My eyes are damp and I'm not thinking of anything except for Peter, the man I love, in front of me. I am so close to having him back, and I will not let him disappear again. Instead, we will disappear together.

"We're going home, Peter. We get to go home now."