He's here. He's here, and she's covered in blood. He's here, and she's crying, alone on the floor, unaware of the other presence in the room. He's staring in shock, in horror, in fright, at the girl in front of him. He's cursing himself, for being so unaware. He's recalling the past, the times he could have helped, the things he could have done. He's watching her life slip away, day after day, each hour accounted for by one more bleeding scar on her body. He's running his hands through his hair, pulling, tugging, trying to bring himself to reality, to get her the help she so clearly needs. He's feeling woozy from the sight, from the blood staining her shirt, running down her legs, pooling on the tile floor. He's crying now, slow, steady tears that drip down his face and pale in comparison to the sobs wracking her body. He's crying for her, for the life she's choosing to live, for the end she wants to take. He's thinking, plotting how he can save her. He's shaking his head, closing his eyes. He's pushing his way out the door. He's giving up on her. He's found her in this position too much, and too often. He's not willing to deal with it anymore. He's thinking that he loved her, that she changed to a person he can no longer love.
He's standing by her casket at her funeral.
He regrets.