Grief
"I'm sorry, Angela..."
He heard a lot of people cry, shout, scream at him. He'd told a lot of mothers the bad news. Somehow, telling Angela was different.
It wasn't the primal scream that shook him. Nor was it the punches she landed on his chest, or the sobs she replaced them with. It wasn't even her hands clawing at his flesh as she tried to somehow still hold on.
Most of the time he didn't feel anything bar sympathy. He always told himself that it was wrong for mothers to bury their children. Hell, he still believed it. But feeling; watching; hearing Angela scream for Jane, was too much for him.
He felt a single tear roll down his cheek. He'd told himself that he wouldn't cry. He would be professional, despite the circumstances. He needed to be. He needed to be there for Angela.
"You promised." It was muffled against his chest, but he felt it as if it was a bullet through his heart. She'd been courting on him and failed. Angela took a step back and stared at him, tear-soaked eyes looking him squarely in the eye.
"You promised me, Vince. You promised me that you would get her home. You promised."
She hadn't shouted, and that had made it worse. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He wanted to talk, but everything he could think of sounded like an excuse. He didn't want to giver her excuses. He wanted to take away the pain. Nothing he could think of even came close. Even saying sorry sounded lame in his head.
"Get out," she whispered, vehemently.
"Angela," he half-begged.
"Get out." Vince turned on his heel and stated out the open door. It was raining heavily. He stepped outside and he felt the door slam shut behind him.
Feeling drained, he fell back against the door. Sliding down, he landed with a bump. Tears soaked his face faster than the rain could have.
He wailed loudly. Every once of his pain he threw into screaming as loud as he could. For a fleeting half-moment, he thought he felt better. He was instantly hit with another wave of guilt and sorrow.
"I shot him," Vince screamed. "I shot him. He was down... I shot him again. And, again. I fired until I was out."
The door opened and he fell backwards, his head hitting the floor. Angela was staring at him, her face contorted with fury and anguish.
"It doesn't bring her back, Vince!" He slowly got up, and faced her.
"I know it doesn't. You think I don't know that! It should've been me, he shot. I told her to take the left. Frost was going round the back. I should've gone in first. I should have been shot. NOT JANE! It's MY MISTAKE! I have to live with it the rest of my life. It's my fault she's not coming home.
I broke my promise to you. To her. I promised that she would come home each night. I promised that you wouldn't have to bury your daughter. I broke those promises. I'll have to live with that for the rest of my life. I get that. Hate me! HATE ME!"
Vince breathed heavily. Staring down at Angela, he knew he could never feel what she felt, but he assumed he was damn close.
"I'm sorry."
It still felt like an excuse. It will felt as if it was an inadequate thing to say. He wanted to tell her it will be okay, eventually. He stopped himself. He knew it wouldn't. Ever. He turned away and walked out the door, the rain soaking him through.
Passing the car, his body was numb from the cold. He stomped, haphazardly down the street and toward the nearest bar he knew of.
He felt a pair of hands fling him around. He felt the arms wrap themselves around his neck, and the wet hair on his face. He could tell it was Angela. He knew she was still angry with him. He held her, as she held him. Both were lost in their own worlds of grief, holding onto each other, as if it was the only thing stopping each other from being washed away.
They weren't alright. Not by a long shot. But, as they stood there, the rain hammering down on them both, they felt a microscopic glimmer of hope. Vince had broken his promise. But, he silently made another one. To himself.
He was going to help Angela through it. Angela needed him. He wasn't about to abandon her.