They sent him a pamphlet. The five stages of grief, who to turn to, where to get help. But there was only one help he needed, it was Kate. He wanted her to come, return. He wanted to look up from the window where he would wait, see her standing there. She'd roll her eyes, put one hand on her hips. He wished she were there.
She'd tease him about the crying. She'd tease him about the not sleeping. She'd tease him about being weak. She'd tease him for not writing. She'd tease him for bathing by candlelight.
But he wouldn't have minded. He would have given anything to have her back. His Kate, his wife, with her smile, her walk, her mind, her eyes. He would have done anything to not need those stupid pamphlets about the five stages, the five stupid stages of grief.
But as much as he hated it, he couldn't bring himself to not read them. So he picked them up in the early morning of a lonely sunday.
Stage One -
Denial. He still spoke to her, asked her opinion. When putting on a shirt - "the blue one today?" It was her favorite. He yelled at her each night to put away her hairbrush, but it stayed. He still made her a cup of coffee every day. Just let it sit on the counter. Alexis threw them out when he wasn't looking. Otherwise there would have been dozens of full mugs of coffee, lining, covering the kitchen surfaces.
In the mornings he reached over to her side of the bed, his hand soft, ready to brush against her cheek. But he always felt like crying when his hand missed her face and landed with a smack in the pit where her head should have been. It was always cold. It was always empty.
He brought her badge with him when he went anywhere. It fit in his coat pocket perfectly and his fingers rubbed it numbly all day. She would be mad if she knew that he was carrying an illegal badge.
But he didn't care. He would have done anything to feel her presence again.
Stage Two -
Anger. In the middle of the night, he would plod silently down to the kitchen, sit upon his stool and watch as the coffee dripped into the pot. He would look around and catch a glimpse of her face. With a start he would search for her, look for her face. But it was only the reflection of a photo. In a a well aimed swipe he would grab the coffee mug on the counter and hurl it into the shining glass.
As it shattered he would sink to his knees against the cupboards, oblivious to the blood trickling down his forehead, or the coffee overflowing on the counter.
Then, hours later, when the sun came up, he would stand, wipe the blood from his face and go back to bed.
It was mornings like those when he didn't see the point of getting up.
Stage Three -
Bargaining. He wrote stories. Not Nikki Heat, not Rook. But him. Him and his Kate. Stories where they would go out for a dinner. The car would slide to a stop again, the moment replaying. The crunch of metal against metal.
Sitting in his chair in the office in the middle of the day, rubbing the bump on his hand where her nail had pierced his skin. The only reminder of the accident he wrote about. The only physical proof that it actually happened.
Except in the stories, instead of him, instead of a man crossing in front of the car, reaching for the woman, calling her name, it was her. She would climb free, see him dead. She cried in the stories, cried pale tears from her emerald eyes.
But at least she was alive to cry them. She was alive and he was dead.
And he wrote those stories over and over. So many times that when he sat in his chair to write, he had memorized what to say. It was automatic. Because she should be alive.
And he shouldn't.
Stage Four -
Depression. He cried many times. Alexis came over every night and he would hold her hand, talk with her. They would watch a movie and she would drift off, every night. Just like the night Kate was first gone from him, he would pull his hand from hers and cross to the window.
Hours were spent there, staring out. But unlike the first night there were no candles. Not a single one. They pointed at the hole in his heart, but still he wished they would come back.
Not seeing them, it was like she was forgotten.
And forgotten meant that she was really truly gone. So each night, he waited, hoping that maybe one person would come, come and cause him a little more pain with one of their candles.
Stage Five -
Acceptance. It hadn't happened yet. He always quit reading the pamphlets at that part. He really didn't think that anybody could get to that stage. It didn't exist.
So he continued to live, talking to her in the morning, throwing things at night, writing the stories, waiting at the window.
He lived in all four stages, hating that he did, because that meant that he was grieving, and that meant she was really, truly gone.
Gone so far that she couldn't come back. Not ever.