In a room far below hers, there is a guitar. She's kept it through all these years, even though it hurts her everyday to know that if she done things right, listened, he'd still be around to play it.
Instead he lays six feet under and she six feet above, waiting for her turn to join him.
It's a nice guitar. She can't argue that, no matter what she tries. It was his pride and joy, the way he played that thing for her all the time. Even when they were apart, and she would call him, he would play her a lullaby until she fell asleep.
Now she has no one to play for her, and she hasn't slept well in nearly six years.
She tried learning once, so she could have something in common with him, and they would have something to do together. She gave up after two lessons. The guitar was his baby and it was part of what made him so special to her.
No one will ever play for her the same way.
She doesn't go near the room that she keeps it, because that was his too, and going into it would mean facing memories that she doesn't ever want to deal with.
They hurt too much.
When she does have to pass it, on the way to the laundry room, she can see it resting against the piano she used to play for him. Everyday...they would play together and it made them stronger, happier.
Now she doesn't touch that piano either.
She used to love the piano, the way the music would flow from under her fingers, from happiness to sadness in only the span of a note. It reminded her of her childhood, when she learned ballet, and would would dance around the house when her mother would play.
She'll never have children to play for.
They were planning on having a baby, but he...they never could. And now she's all alone, without the company of a child to keep her from losing what little of her mind she has left.
She's already lost her mind, at least that's what she tells herself.
She gave up alot of things when he died. Her happiness was one of them, because he had always been so central to it. He had always been there to make her smile and laugh.
Those are two things she hasn't done in six years.
This had been their house, after the wedding. Four years of happiness and then...
Nothing.
Four years was not enough and never would be. How could she give up so easily, on something that she had searched a lifetime for? How could she pretend that everything was alright when her life was falling down around her?
She stopped pretending a very long time ago.
This house is too big for her, all alone. Every room is haunted by a memory, and every second of everyday she must re-live what could have been if she had managed to save him.
What kind of doctor couldn't save her own husband?
She had to give the illusion that she was fine with it, because no one had known anyways. Except Wilson. Wilson knew everything. But to everyone else, she shouldn't even care. Not that much. He had been her everything, her friend.
Friends didn't let friends die.
She drinks now, drowns herself in the sorrow. At least for a little while she can pretend that everything is alright and he never died. She can pretend that she's not as jaded, not as messed up as now.
Until she comes down from her high and realizes the illusion.
She can remember the screaming tires, the shattered glass, even though she wasn't there to see it. She's always had a vivid imagination. She can remember the ER and the flashing lights and the way her heart seemed to stop when she saw it him on the stretcher. The way she begged him not to leave her, and the frantic way she demanded they work faster, harder.
She remembers collasping in her office, crying.
She thinks of quitting, moving, leaving it all behind. She wants to forget the pain. She wants happiness again, and freedom. She wants a life, dammit!
But she would be leaving him behind too.