I used to look forward to surgeries before you left.

I used to love to be wrapped up in the scent of the scrub, the sterility of the OR, the sound of heart monitors and oxygen.

But now the only thing I want to be wrapped up in is your arms.

The smell of the scrub brings me back to the day that I watched you, no...listened to you die in the gallery.

I look at my ring and know that I need to take it off, and my heart aches as I have to do so. I tuck it gently in my pocket, my heart aching as I do so.

The one thing I have left of you that I can carry with me and I have to tuck it away for surgery

I have to push you out of my mind.

It's for the better.

How is it that you continue to make me doubt my own thoughts, even in death? How is it that you continue to baffle and confuse me, and make me wonder if I ever really knew what the hell was going on.

I tear open the scrub package and I choke on the scent and I feel the sting of acid at the back of my throat once more, the nefarious smell of povidone and alcohol assaulting my senses and overwhelming me.

I lose control of myself once again and lurch over the trashcan, bile spilling from my lips again and I wonder if I'll ever be able to make it. I wonder if I'll ever find that edge that I once had.

The edge I had before I found you.

The edge I wanted back before I lost you.

After my stomach is satisfied in causing me physical torture I sip cool water from my cupped hands and spit it back out, knowing that if I had to breathe in the odor of my own vomit for the next four hours I would cause a great deal of contamination in the OR.

I tie on my mask and pick up the scrub brush, rubbing it harshly against my skin, peeling away the emotions, a layer of infecting bacteria at a time.

I glance out into the OR at the patient being prepped for surgery and I see my reflection in the glass, only my eyes exposed and I remember the way we used to talk without words.

The way that you used to look at me during surgery, before the tremors, the way that you used to undress me with your eyes while asking me questions.

A game of yours that we favored a great deal.

I also remember the eyes that you had for me whenever we were trying to hide your tremors from the hospital.

Why couldn't you have stayed mad at me, dammit?

Why couldn't you have kicked me out, pushed me away, told me to leave, why did you have to forgive me?

Would it have been easier if I thought that you hated me whenever you died? Would it hurt this much if I hadn't have seen it happen?

I hate these questions.

I'm supposed to have the answers, I'm supposed to have the reasoning.

I'm supposed to have the logic behind it all.

You took it all away from me, Burke.

I hope you're happy with yourself.