This story was written by my pal Denise, not by me. She's too shy to post it here but eventually relented and gave me permission to post it for her since I thought it was so damn good!!!!
He looked down at his gloves. Red. Red with her blood. No matter what he could do differently she was dead. He had tried. He did everything he knew he could do; and yet her heart didn't beat again. How was he going to face his son. How was he to tell him, sorry, Daddy failed? So he continued to look at his gloves on his hands.
Finally standing he ripped off the gloves, and threw away his life. His wife's blood. His existence.
He shed himself of his scrubs and staggered across the street to a bar. That had to be more welcome than seeing his wife die in his hands. He raised an arm and ordered a beer, whatever was on special. That wasn't what was on his mind right now. And he continued to drink, until it was a blur. Until time ended and until he woke up.
He wasn't sure how long he had been at the bar. He didn't even know what time it was. He had to tell his son. She was gone. And he had tried. As he opened his eyes all he could see was an alley.
Where was he? How much had he drank? What day was it?
I have to get to my son. I have to tell him I tried. Instead he looked over to a garbage can. Fantastic.He raised up on his arm and the flood of the surgery came back to him. The surgery. The blood. The fact that he couldn't save her. And it washed over him .He couldn't even be bothered to get up. He had failed.
That was it. He was a failure. He let his wife die. He left his son without a mother.
It wasn't worth even living anymore. His world died.
"Hey mister, this is my corner, could you move?"
He looked up to see a boy, in tatters holding a cup. For change.
He nodded and staggered away, looking for anything to take away the pain and guilt that he felt. What he found was another bar. So he sighed and walked up. Why not he thought? His son was better off not seeing him ever again. Knowing it was his fault that his mother was dead.
A woman sashayed by in a red dress. And then all he could see was her blood again. It was on his clothes, on his hands, and on his heart.
He'd never be the father he wanted to be. He'd never be the husband he thought he could be. He'd just be.
He raised his hand and ordered another drink. At least the alcohol numbed the pain. At least he could forget. In that moment, he just was.