Chapter Four: Bargaining

Dear Greg,

You probably know that I don't really believe in God. I do believe that there is a higher being out there that decided on that fateful night a few months ago to take you from my life. But I don't believe that the same being also made us fall in love. I don't know what to do anymore. I've been to the chapel at the hospital and I have tried to ask for help with therapists and psychiatrists alike. Nothing helps. You are still…dead.

The other day, Cuddy set me up with one of the best therapists in the area, and when I went I completely clamped up. I won't open up to anything. I just wanted to rest my head on the pillow on my lap and sob, but the lady asked me how I was doing with your loss. She showed me a chart of the Five Stages of Grief. This process is confusing and yet now all my feelings are starting to come together and make sense now.

The denial that you were gone, the anger I felt, and now the wanting to trade something with "a higher being" that some people believe in. I wouldn't allow myself to look at the final two stages. I didn't want to know what other shit I am going to have to go through in the weeks to come. I smiled forcefully at the woman that made things clearer and then left the small suffocating room.

I went back to the hospital where my feet carried me to the chapel. I sulked into the room and sat in a pew. The stained-glass windows streamed in beams of multi-coloured light and I just looked up at the ceiling. I felt like I could pray right then. I really did. In fact I remember mumbling out of my frowning lips, "Please. If there is anything you can take from me to bring him back…" But that was as far as I got before the tears came over me. No God would listen to my requests…He's too busy killing other people and giving other people life.

I felt weak after that "talk" with myself. I left the chapel, left the hospital, and stood in warmth of early spring. But I was also numb so the warmth didn't feel as good as intended. I don't remember how I got home that night but I remember sleeping all night on my side of the bed.

If you are somehow getting these letters I put under your pillow…come back. Please before I try the "God's Therapy" again.

Love you so much more and need you more with every second you're gone,

James

In my office, I have never felt so much more alone. I wondered what that surprise you had for me was that night. The image of your body entering the hospital that night still shakes my very soul. I feel as though my heart was a rose and your love and attention was the water that kept me alive. Well…it's been almost three months and my rose has dried up and it's starting to shed too many petals.

I had arranged another meeting with a therapist but this time I am going to my old one. The one that helped me through my latest divorce. She did seem to help me the most even if she did prescribe me with the Prozac. I looked at my watch, and then turned off my office light as I left the room. I promised myself not to clamp up this time. It never got me anywhere anyway.

I got to her office right on time. She greeted me from the doorway and gave me a hug of support. I only looked at her with sad eyes and sat on her couch that had become my prison cell through all the other sessions. She sat in her leather chair and pulled out an empty notebook and tied her red hair up in a bun; before saying in her normal happy voice, "So…how have you been lately James? You sounded a bit sad on the phone this morning…"

I looked up into her green eyes and said in a dead tone, "Someone I loved has died," She nodded with a sad expression and wrote that down before replying, "Oh dear. It wasn't your dog, Hector, was it?" I felt like I was going to roll my eyes but I stopped myself before I could, "No. My lover is dead." She also took that down on her notebook and asked with questions written all over her face. "You re-married?"

I gripped onto the pillow on my lap, sighed and looked down. "No. My lover. I…I was living with someone for a few years, and just this past January…he died." The room suddenly got small. I just realized that I just came out and told the woman who helped me through divorces with women that I like men now. I expected her to ask more questions but instead she clamped up for a moment.

I heard the sound of a pen scratching onto a piece of paper, and then the low melody of her voice, "How did he die?" I braved a look up into her eyes and saw that she was smiling slightly with a bit of pity shining in her eyes. I knew I could trust her. More than I could trust any "God".

A/N: I have been having trouble writing this story. I mean I like how I set everything up and it seems to fit into Wilson's character. I just feel like I get a bit side-tracked with this story. I am almost done with it…so I guess that's a good thing. What do you think though? Is Wilson "Wilson" enough? Thanks for your continued patronage though. I am doing a lot better now that my computer is finally fixed.