"Are you still in pain, honey?" he asked gently, deciding to table the other topic for the time being.
Fiona nodded weakly. She closed her eyes and sat back. Her whole body was tense, bracing itself from the pain. She was starting to shake.
Joe stood and turned off the water. He stroked her wet hair for a moment, trying to soothe whatever agony she was facing. "Fiona, you're not going to help yourself by sitting in the bath all day. You'll catch your death."
"I thought I'd already caught it," she quipped. Despite her little joke, her voice was soft and limp, like overcooked pasta. The words spilled from her lips haphazardly; they lacked form and purpose.
He hated seeing her like this. "Come on." He awkwardly bent to pick her up. "Back to bed."
If Fiona protested—or even wanted to—she made no indication. She shivered in his arms. It was from the cold of her wet clothes and hair, but it was also an inner chill, the shaking tension of her screaming bones.
She allowed him to deposit her back in bed. He lay there with her quietly for a while. She didn't speak. She didn't want to. After some time, he asked her if she wanted anything to eat. She rejected that idea. He offered to get her a drink to dull the pain. She declined. He suggested a cigarette to calm her. And again, she refused.
"You don't have to stay here with me," she murmured.
"'Course I do. What kind of man would leave his lover when she needs him?" he replied, a hint of a smile in his tone.
"Whoever said I need you?" she grumbled in response.
Joe almost felt rebuffed, but he regained composure. "Nah, you're not getting off that easy. You're just being mean because you're hurtin'. It's okay, baby. You be as mean as you like, if it makes you feel better. I'll be right here. Just like I've always been."
Fiona shifted slightly to better look up at him. "You have always been here, haven't you?" she thought aloud curiously.
"You've been my sole purpose for over fifty years. And now for all of eternity."
For some reason, unclear even to her, Fiona turned away at his words. She curled up and tried to focus on her breathing. There was a new tension in her body, and she knew it was unrelated to her continued physical pain.
This time, Joe was upset by her. "I wish you wouldn't do that," he warned.
All it took to respond was a quick puff of air from Fiona's lips.
Joe stood up and stared at her for a moment, weighing his options. He turned and walked out the door, slamming it behind him.
Fiona didn't know how long she was left alone, shivering and moaning in pain. She kept her eyes shut most of the time, but she did notice the light grow brighter throughout the day, and dim to darkness. She didn't sleep at all. She couldn't. The pain was too intense. The stabbing pinpricks all over her skin and in her organs, as though her bones had all splintered and begun piercing everything in their way. She'd never felt like this before. Childbirth hadn't been this bad. Not even the cancer, attacking her spine, leaving her weak and bald and vomiting, had been so excruciating. She had thought that was the greatest pain she'd ever endured her whole life. She'd been partially right. She wasn't experiencing this pain during her life. Her life was over. She had no power or control in any sense of the terms.
And so she remained for two more days. Alone and in agony. Joe was nowhere to be found. Not that Fiona really cared at this point. His presence had been comforting, yes, but he was so damned sensitive. He should know that her nasty attitude toward him was a product of her selfish personality and her immense pain. But then again, maybe he hadn't figured out yet that her love for him was not transformative; she would always be the same bitch she'd always been. He'd never changed that before in her life, so why should death make any difference?
