You First

Morning came.

As the weight of the night before pressed down on him Jack felt as though he had slept enough. Whether it was true or just he guilt talking didn’t really matter. The morning had come despite Jack’s best efforts of holding it at bay.

He kept his eyes still. Counted heartbeats. As he silently mouthed ten he rotated his left wrist. The sheet over it moved in unison.

So it’s true, he thought.

It was. He cursed himself for not learning from the last time. It wasn’t deep enough then either. And this time the cotton bedding – high quality at the insistence of his wife – had acted as a bandage more than anything.

Bathtub, dumbass!

He shifted his eyes to the clock next to him. The numbers were blurry but he could make out an eight on the left. He shivered; wiggled a big toe. A blanket was on him.

But how? Certainly he hadn’t bothered. What’s the sense of tucking yourself in for a sleep you don’t plan to wake from?

Sarah.

It must have been Sarah.

“Shut up, stupid. It couldn’t have been her.” He whispered this time, the consonants sticking in his dry throat. He shook his head in a vain attempt to clear it. The room shifted as he did so. Nothing was stationary. Reality sure as well wasn’t.

His head swam but his stomach remain grounded. He nodded slightly at what the last set of EMTs had called ‘traumatic blood loss’. He knew all the jargon now. He knew what it looked like. He knew what he felt like.

So did Sarah.

“Finish the thought.” he said, hushed but with enough breath to tickle his lips as the words passed.

So did Sarah. Which is why she left.

“Exactly.” His lips itched. He nodded.

She’s gone. She was gone six months ago. And last week. And last night.

And right now.

So why the wrists?

Jack smiled at his inner self, relishing the answer. “No. Just the one this time.” He felt an odd sense of pride. He had stopped himself at one. Perhaps it was just a cry for help this time.

Probably you couldn’t grasp the razor in your left hand on account of all the blood.

“Fuck.” It was the first word said at full volume since Jack opened his eyes. The only word.

Jack reached over his body to grasp the sheet that was plastered to his left hand. He winced with the realization that the blood had caked the sheet to his entire arm. He thought better of tearing it away.

The words from a moment before flashed again: she’s not here.

Jack swung his feet over the side of the bed and willed himself vertical.

She’s gone.

She’s flown away.

She flew.

“I don’t believe in heaven but she always did,” said Jack to Jack.

Jack took three unsteady but certain steps toward the window.

How does one get to heaven?

Jack didn’t answer right away.

He slid the window to the side and pushed at the screen. He inhaled the sharp winter air.

“The only way to heaven is to fly.”