Four days ago, she'd almost died. […] She'd almost died right there in front of them all. He'd felt death in the room, like a cloud gathering itself somewhere up near the ceiling, and its presence felt oddly familiar, as if he'd been somehow expecting it, as if part of him had known all along that this was how it might end.
Maggie O'Farrell, The hand that first held mine.
But tell me now where was my fault, in loving you with my whole heart?
Mumford & Sons, White Blank Page.
It's not real anymore: just a repetitively horrifying part of your nightmares. And what they involve is: blood, pouring from her chest relentlessly; your hands, becoming stained with that precious, vital red liquid; your eyes spilling with tears of horror and the spark in her green irises disappearing; your breath, catching in your throat as you watched her faint; her deathly silence as she lay on the grass waiting in the dangerous line between this world and whatever is beyond it.
You keep replaying this scene in your mind, regardless of the unbearable pain it brings along. The way she closed her eyes then –like letting herself go, like a swimmer too exhausted to keep fighting the current- torments you still.
She's okay now, you have to tell yourself to stop this madness. She's okay, she's okay, she's okay. You don't know who to thank -the doctors or God's will- for saving her. You do know for sure, though, that it should have been you. It should have been you saving her, you jumping in front of that bullet at the exact moment they were reaching their target –and not a moment too late-, you shedding your (worthless in comparison, you'd say) blood, you falling to the ground, you being at risk. But not her. Never her. This failure makes you feel ashamed of yourself, weak, foolish.
And the sum of all the occasions you've seen her get hit, get shot at, get hurt is crushing you under its unbearable weight. You wonder how many times exactly is it that you're going to have to be beside her, holding her as life escapes from her, fighting her from Death's hands. How many times are you going to have to be on your knees like a penitent suffering his punishment, powerlessly trying to save her? For a woman who inspired a heroin, you think she spends a considerable extent of her days needing rescue. But it's not that it bothers you, the saving part. You would, in fact, willingly and gladly die for her. What worries you is what will happen when you can't watch over her anymore, when they kill you first, when they outnumber you and all the men assigned to protect her. One day –this is your biggest fear- one day no warnings, no pleas –Stay with me, Kate. Don't leave me, please- or safety measures will be enough, one day you will fail, the rest of the world will conspire and it will be over. She will be freefalling, and you won't be able to catch her before she smashes into the ground.
It's a terrible thing, knowing that she's alive but not because of you and being almost certain that when something awful and irreparable finally happens to her, it will be your fault.
What makes it even worse is that she isn't aware of the most important truth of your existence, which you whispered to her in that cemetery almost three months ago because it felt like the only thing that could possibly keep her here with you.
She said she didn't remember anything.
She said she didn't want to talk.
She said she needed time.
And therefore you are waiting.
Partly because you are too glad she's alive to contradict her.
Partly because you'd do anything she asked you to and you'd give her anything she needed, wanted, desired.
Partly because you are a coward (so much so that you didn't dare to say I love you again in that hospital bedroom, aloud and proudly, whether she wanted to hear it or not, not even though your tired soul was begging you to.)
You are waiting (heartache, guilt, sorrow are all components of your days now.) Whether you wait because of or in spite of your love for Katherine Beckett remains unclear.
(Some nights you can tell it's not a nightmare -she says "I love you too.")