"Don't EVER tell me what to do! I'm so SICK of people trying to control me!"
Cover your ears. Let the tears fall. Try not to make a sound.
"You are going to get into hella more trouble for this than drugs."
Let the storm rage within. Try not to think, to listen, to know.
"Nobody would even miss your punk ass, would they?"
You will.
"Get that gun away from me, psycho!"
*BANG*
Bite your tongue, clutch your head, don't reach out, don't feel, don't listen. Don't listen to Nathan freaking out, don't listen to David bursting in and tackling Nathan, don't listen to David break as he sees who it is on the floor, don't listen to the paramedics trying in vain to save the girl who never stood a chance, don't listen as the universe fades to white, giving you this hateful mercy of not having to live through what must happen next.
Open your eyes to darkness. To warmth. To something heavy on you that you throw off in a panic, gasping and grasping for air, your mouth warm and wet and thick as you try to apologize but instead knock an alarm clock off a night stand. It thunks to the floor like the gun, like Chloe. A lamp, a light, and the slow recognition of the room around you: your bedroom.
"Max, are you- oh shit."
A voice; familiar, comforting, reassuring. A hand on your shoulder and a cloth pressed to your mouth, catching the trickle of blood from where you have bitten your lip and tongue. A hand presses the cloth into your hand and you hold it against your mouth as your surroundings continue to come into focus and you begin to remember who you are.
You are Max Caulfield. No, Max Graham. This is your bedroom, the one you share with your husband, Warren, in Seattle. The room is well-furnished, with framed posters and photographs on the walls and the tops of the dressers. One catches your eye: a framed polaroid shot of a blue butterfly perched on the rim of a pail. You want to break it, tear it, burn it.
Warren returns with the first aid kit. He tells you it doesn't look bad, more superficial than anything, then asks the question you know is coming: "The nightmare again?"
He doesn't have to ask which one. Though there are many, there is only one that leaves you with blood in your mouth. And on the wall this time too, it seems. The Dark Room, the hospital bed in the garage-room, Kate falling and rising and falling and rising, none of them are like this. Those at least allow you to scream, to clutch at the sheets, at Warren, let you go when you awake. Not this one. Not the bathroom. Not the sacrifice you swore you would never make and still did.
You nod. Words fail you for now. You know they will come back soon, they always do, and you will ask the same question you always do, and he will give you the same answer he always does, and you will still wonder and you will get up, go downstairs, and you will stand on the balcony and smoke a single cigarette while staring at the stars and trying yet again to figure out what could have been done differently.
"Did I make the right choice?" The ritual begins.
"I don't know, but you did what she asked you to and you saved a lot of lives, including mine." He answers.
So you get up and use the cloth in your hand to wipe at the blood on the wall until Warren gently takes it from you and says that he will take care of it. Then you nod mutely, walk around the bed and out into the hallway, down the stairs, and to the kitchen. There you dig the cigarettes out of the freezer, noting that there are only a couple left. Then you step out of the warm, silent cocoon of your house and on the balcony and the gentle noise of a suburban fall at a little past midnight.
The tobacco is stale and tastes like shit. They always taste like shit, but the last few have been truly awful. This one is no better and you choke on the smoke of the first drag. You can almost picture her laughing at you, though for your inability to smoke or your insistence on finishing her last pack in some twisted form of a memorial you don't know.
"If only you could be here to do either." You murmur, wincing at the stinging in your tongue and lip. Leaning against the railing you blow rancid smoke into the night sky, watching the wisps drift away and dissolve. It's almost half gone now. They burn quicker each time.
And so the ritual goes, except this time something different happens. Warm arms encircle your waist and pull you close. A chin rests on your shoulder and a face nuzzles your neck. You want to squirm away, but a voice inside tells you that this is okay, that it's alright for things to be different this time. That being alone isn't always the best choice.
"She was so alone." The words are out before you realize it. "She died alone, without knowing that anyone really cared. How could I do that to Chloe?"
There are no words in response but the arms around your waist squeeze a little tighter.
"I betrayed her. I betrayed my best friend and let her die alone on a bathroom floor." The words end as a sob. The cigarette trembles and threatens to fall.
"She wasn't alone. You were there, even if that Chloe didn't know it." Warren's voice is low and soft, as comforting as his arms. He hesitates, then continues. "I'd like to think she knows it now. That when she... died... that she knew how much you did care."
"You sound like Kate." The words are bitter but soft around the edges. You want to be able to believe the same thing. Because it might take away some of the guilt.
You can feel him wince at your tone and how you can feel him realizing just how much you don't want anyone out here with you. You want to protest or try again, but you don't. He gives you one last gentle squeeze and kisses the back of your head. "I'm going back to bed. Please don't stay out here too long." Then Warren lets go and the sliding door opens and closes, leaving you alone again with your thoughts.
But this time you don't wait for the cigarette to burn itself out. You don't know why exactly, but this time it's different. Something has changed and instead of waiting until you can no longer stand to be alone outside, you take one last drag on the cigarette and set it in the ash tray on the small glass balcony table before giving the stars one last look and heading inside.
Up the stairs you go, down the hallway, and into the bedroom where you climb silently under the sheets and cling to Warren, letting his arms surround you and help you start to drift off to sleep, unaware of the blue butterfly that has landed on the nearly-exhausted cigarette that was left behind. Its wings flex once, twice, and then it flies off into the night sky, chasing the last wisp released by the lonely, dying coal.
