The night was still, the air thick, almost choking.
A couple lay out by the docks.
All was not as it seemed.
The knife kept plunging deep into her body. Over and over and over again, until she did not cry out anymore, and the haunting echoes of her agonizing screams faded away.
He laughed as he slowly carved out one more wound, and then wiped off the blood. The knife's sliver blade glistened in the moonlight. Her salty tears fall silently down her face.
"We can finally be together." He whispered lovingly, caressing her chin with his blood covered hand.
"You need to understand, I did this for us." She closed her eyes against his foul breath and whispered a goodbye.
It wasn't for him.
He got angry, furious, and started shaking her. So hard her head bounced off the concrete. The pain in her head exacerbated the wounds all over her frail figure. She gave one last gasp, and then all life left her.
He started crying.
"No." He whispered. He looked at her pale face, her tears mixed with blood. "No."
Just realizing the extent of his forcefulness, he broke down.
"NO!"
He sobbed into her hair while clutching her unresponsive form.
He laid her down and started kissing her wounds, trying to fix her with his love. But love was never enough for him, otherwise he wouldn't be here in the first place.
He distantly heard the wails of multiple police sirens, but all his immediate attention was focused on his beloved.
Wheels screeched as car after car pulled up to couple, the smell of burning rubber mixed with the salty smell of the ocean and the metallic zing of shipping containers.
Officers in all sorts of uniforms came rushing in. They separated the two from each other, hauling him away from her. He thrashed and screamed her name, but he could not be heard, or cared about to listen to, over the different noises blaring out from this little scene.
A paramedic ran up to the woman, just a girl really, with a bright red bag.
"Dios mio." He said, and made the sign of the cross. A halo of blood surrounded her entire body, like the Virgin Mary on her death bed. More paramedics joined the fray as it became more and more apparent she was in dire need of help.
Just then another man came. Un-acknowledged in the chaos, he walked over to the circle of men and women with the bright green neon stripes on their jackets. He kneeled down next to the medics and searched for the one that looked the least busy.
"Can I ride with her?" A woman with a blonde ponytail sized him up and whistled in the direction of her boss. He looked over and stared down the newcomer. Both sets of eyes never wavered. He nodded and jerked his head toward the ambulance. The young man strode over and got into the van.
The distinct hospital smell didn't greet the woman's entourage as they came in.
It was more like panic, sweat, desperation, and fear, mixed with the steamy, earthy smell of the rain. The woman with the blonde ponytail was running with the stretcher down the hallway. She looked back at the man that had come with them from the scene.
"Sir, we're going to head into surgery so you'll have to wait in the waiting room." She nodded her head in the direction of a group of empty chairs. The man let go of the stretcher and watched as they rushed through a set of double doors to a place he couldn't go.
He waited for hours on end. He paced throughout the waiting room and read the cheesy magazines. He watched the late night news shows report the accident and interview cops, and paramedics, and witnesses. He got up to go to the coffee machine at least nine times throughout the night. His eyes became sore from the blinding white of the hospital and the chemicals. His nose couldn't smell anything besides bleach. He didn't dare go outside for a smoke for fear someone might come out and he wouldn't be there.
It was very early morning when he snapped out of his dozing and became aware of a set of shoes squeaking down the hallway. He jumped up out of his chair and intercepted the doctor who's scrubs were covered in blood.
"Are you the man that was waiting for the lady that came in a few hours ago?" The young man nodded.
"Ok, well she lost a lot of blood, a lot, and suffered severe injuries to her skull and brain. Her internal organs were a mess and it was touch-and-go for a little while there, but we had our best surgeons in there working on her. She's alright but she's in a coma. She might not wake out of it anytime soon, or at all, but since we don't know who she is, we can't say what she would want for herself right now." The young man had his hands in his pockets and was rocking on his heels.
"Well, um," he cleared his throat, "she's over 18, just turned it three days ago actually, and I think it says somewhere on her medical record that she did not want to be pulled off life support. Her family can cover the expenses. I called them a while ago, and they said to fax all the information you can to this number." He got a card out of his pocket and handed it to the doctor.
"Is she able to see visitors?" The doctor looked at the card and then back up at the young man standing before him.
"She's in the ICU, but I think I can pull a few strings." The young man smiled a grim smile.
"Thank you, so much, for helping her." He shook hands with the doctor and they walked up to her room.
A few rays of sunlight were peeking through the closed blinds giving the room and eerie look while shadows danced with sun.
"I'll leave you two alone." The doctor, Dr. Klevangle, said quietly as he eased the door shut. The young man threw his coat onto a chair and walked slowly to the foot of her bed.
Dark purple bruises covered her arms and face where bandages didn't. Some covered her fingers, her neck, her face; cheek, eye; her head was cocooned in a turban of bandages. Tubes ran in and out of her arms, her torso. The beeping and blink lights did nothing to distract him from the hiss of the compressor that was breathing for her. Making her chest rise up, go down; up, down.
He understood why she would choose to stay on; it was her way. She was a fighter. She would get through this like everything else and when she did, he would be there for her.
He walked around her bed to a chair and dragged it to her side. Then he gently, carefully picked up her hand and kissed it. Then he leaned over her, and pulled out a rosary.
"Please be ok. Please be ok. Please be ok..." He whispered over her while praying silently.
Over the next few weeks he did this; come in, talk to her, pray, and then leave. He spoke to her in different languages, believing that the unconscious mind picks up more than the conscious one does. He was there every day, every time they took her back into surgery, every time they removed a bandage, every time they added or took away another machine. There was only one constant: him. Eventually they took the compressor away when she started choking. She didn't wake up, but she could breathe on her own.
They removed her head bandage and he washed her hair sometimes. Careful, always careful, so he wouldn't disrupt the tubes and bandages. Dark ribbons lay sprawled out across the stark white pillow. The bruises took on a greenish yellow hue; almost healed. They inserted one more tube; a feeding tube, so her body could get stronger while her mind healed.
One day the man came in soaking wet, it had been raining and he didn't have any money for the bus. He was shivering and dripping on the floor. He sat in his regular chair by her bed, rested his forearms on his knees, and leaned over. His hair was hanging in front of his face, dripping water onto the floor where it collected in puddles.
"Wake up." He whispered his eyes clamped tightly shut, hands clasped together.
"Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up. Please!" He begged her, praying to every and any god he knew. "Wake up." The hushed words barely escaped his lips before he heard it:
"Matthew?" He looked up. Dark, onyx eyes were slowly revealed to him as she opened her eyes. He smiled for the first time in...a long time.
"Emily."