A/N: I know this fic started out more about being poetic and flowery, but it will gradually have more dialogue in it. So enjoy, and reviews are greatly appreciated (i.e. more reviews quicker update).
Recommended Soundtrack: I Just Don't Think I'll Ever Get Over You by Colin Hay
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Chapter 2
Self-Inflicted Wounds
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You're cinematic, razor sharp
A welcome arrow through the heart
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He catches her. He catches her. But you made her fall.
As he picks her up, she softly murmurs your name, and you can't help but think that that is a tiny victory in a long, cold war ahead of you.
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The pain you're feeling now - is it emotional or physical?
Physical. Surely is, positively, possibly not, definitely isn't physical.
Your heartbeat is erratic and your breathing is shallow and you're not sure who you are. But you know who he is. You know his voice. You know his faint smell (Ralph Lauren Polo, thank you very much) and the beat of his footsteps.
Your earth spins when you realize who is carrying you, and it isn't him. You realize who it is and wish who it isn't.
God, how you wish you could just shrivel up and die right now. Just leave behind your problems and let someone else take care of them. Let someone else be tortured and confused and happy and demoralized and sated. Just...let someone else do it.
But as many ironic lessons have taught you, you can't have everything you want. You can't have him and you certainly can't have the other.
You are empty. You are isolated.
You are alone.
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You could be happy. You know you could be happy with the life you have and the love you had. But you are selfish. You are selfish and you aren't willing to give up that easily, knowing that there is something - or rather someone - out there greater for you.
A greedy part of you wishes that she had totally shut down when you left her. That's the same part that held her close to you tonight, relishing in the happy tremors that coursed throughout your bodies - a true release of pent-up frustrations and emotions.
But now you're here, stuck at an impasse, waiting to find the rewind button. You're here, waiting for her to wake up and tell you what the hell is going on, because the answer you have sure as hell isn't going to fly.
You remember. She smiled at him - the wide, dimpled smile that was once reserved only for you - and your heart skipped a jealous beat. You throat clenched and your mind reeled in envy. You know now that it was the way she has felt for months now.
Her soft waves fall gently around her face, and she looks so innocent and pure that you momentarily forget how jaded she really is.
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Your eyes slowly peel open, once again exposing themselves to the harsh light of reality. You don't move, because if you do, you know the headache that is hitting you in waves will only be exasperated. The fabric of the formerly comfortable dress you have been wearing is now itching you with not only the threads of the material, but the threads of the memories that will always be associated with it.
He's there. He's there and he's sitting in a chair in the far corner of the room, the bridge of his nose pinched between his forefinger and thumb, apparently deep in concentration. You can see the tiredness reflected on his face and in the deep wrinkles in his forehead.
You snap your eyes closed again, hoping to run away back into your dreamless, worriless sleep. But he catches you and murmurs your name softly.
"Meredith." There he goes again, his voice so full of anticipation, as though you are going to give him something to go on - something that he doesn't really deserve and you don't really have.
"What's wrong with me?" you say, your eyes still squeezed shut.
"Meredith," he repeats, his lips poised for the talk you aren't ready to have and are hoping to postpone indefinitely. You finally open your eyes and realize he is standing now, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, next to your bed, his eyes darkened with angst. Suddenly it is hard to breathe.
"Derek." He sighs dejectedly and you know you have won for now, leaving your inevitable pain for another day.
"You were suffering from stress and exhaustion," he mumbles, boring a hole in the floor, when really his stare should be aimed at you, and you resist the urge to say sarcastically, 'I wonder why?' The corner of your lip tugs up imperceptibly at your personal joke and he says, "That's it. You should be able to leave in a few hours."
You don't speak. Your face is expressionless and your lips form a tiny circle and you let out a small sigh, breathing the syllable, "Oh."
You watch him intently as he shifts, his right hand hesitantly pulling from the depths of the pocket and lingering in the air over your hand, which lays on the bed next to you. You swear you feel your fingers twitch, as though magnetically attracted towards his. You think he is about to speak, but he just sighs again and rubs the temporary creases in his forehead, which will surely disappear as soon as you are out of his mind.
"I...ah," he begins, finally uttering something, "I'm just glad you're ok." Damn him. Damn him, damn him, damn him. Damn him for being so...so kind and good and for breathing and being alive. You can feel the tears stinging the back of your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. They will never fall for him.
You simply nod and close your eyes again briefly, acknowledging that you heard him. He sighs again, a seemingly new release valve that he has had to create for you.
And then he simply leaves.
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