Last night must've been the darkest, coldest night I have lived on. It's as if the hell froze over and I walked on its ice. Not a word, not even a goodbye was said when you decided to be gone - and stayed gone. Forever. I still remember the way you waved your hand on the morning I went to work. Your smile seemed sincere, completely concealed what drove your heart into taking such extreme measure. Yes, I couldn't even catch a glimpse of your wicked intention, no matter how minuscule. Not that morning. Not even hundreds of morning before.
I have always thought that last night I would've walked into our home (weary, of course), not forgetting to put my shoes on the wooden shoe cabinet near the front door (because you always maddeningly scold me for being so untidy - funny how it is now I remember this after you've gone), only to find you fell asleep on our bed. The flowers-and-dogs patterns that emblazoned the "cute" bed cover you bought a month ago would look crumpled covering three-quarters of your body. Maybe I would kiss you here and there. Maybe you would wake up and ask how was my work, why was I late, and so on. Perhaps you would be slightly upset because the increasingly expensive condiments you've bought have gone to waste because I didn't eat the dinner you've prepared since the early dusk.
Instead I found your lifeless smile. Your eyes closed. Your body was cold and rigid from the rigor mortis. The dogs and flowers were now gone from sight, and the color red took place. On the bed, on the floor, on the pajamas you wore.
I have lost count of how many times I tried to wake you up. An hour must've been passed when I kneeled next to your body and wailed over you, thinking heaven would pity me just this once and you would live once more.
I didn't remember how exactly I regained my composure and finally called police, your parents, and my parents. Next thing I knew, it was already morning. A dim cast of light shone through the windows. A crowd gathered outside our house beyond the police line. Our parents tried to comfort me, and your mum cried incessantly while covering her face with your dad's handkerchief. Our dads were mostly silent, perhaps they were in shock. Your dad patted me in my shoulder, saying, "She's gone. She's gone. Now we have to get used to it." My heart is always prepared to lose you. But not this way. Certainly not this way. I cannot get myself used to this, and perhaps never will. My thoughts and words were sealed, in between tears and a barrage of hugs and comforting gestures from our families, friends, and neighbors.
The hearse has already taken you away for long. I've signed death-related papers that were necessary. I refused to authorize an autopsy because there is no need to desecrate your beauty that never ceased. Police officer that inquired me about why did you commit suicide has gone. I couldn't remember what answers I gave them beside "I don't know" and some words I blurted aimlessly. He suspected me of abusing you. I didn't, right, dear? I am a good husband, right?
Some people urged me to take a bath, and strangely I just complied without question. They all busied themselves for the funeral service that will take few hours from now. I took my shirt - my bluish working shirt with red stains on both of its sleeves. I remembered last night again. I remembered how my expectation to see you calmly dreaming had turned into a nightmare. A worst nightmare. A worst nightmare which is also real.
I wept under the shower as the memories of you began playing in my head. I reminisced our sweetest moments, our first date, our engagement, our wedding. I bitterly laughed remembering how clumsy we were on our first night. I even missed our fights and debates, our cryings together. It's all perfectly normal. Very normal, even. What is it that made you did that? I never recalled the moment you developed a depressive episode or some suicidal tendencies. Or were you that good to hide it all? Is it because we haven't got children? Or is it because you were lonely since I became so absorbed with my job? Please come back, honey. Please! I promise you I will not leave you anymore. I promise you I will give my time for you!
Nothing but "I am sorry, I am sorry" muttered from my lips. I know that you are invisible now, but you can still hear me. Please forgive me, darling. Please forgive me because I haven't got a chance to say I am sorry. Please forgive me, wherever you are now.
I get dressed, ready to go to the funeral parlor. Still adorned with soggy eyes and sadness that stubbornly refuses to leave. A broken vase is broken once, and so is a heart that is torn to pieces could never heal completely. Of this I know, of this I believe.
They tell me to grab some foods first, but I can't. There is this heavy air of sadness choking down my throat. The blazing sun is now covered by overcast, such a perfect time to mourn. The stress, the sadness, and the sleepless night all pushed me into near-collapse. I try to reach the medicine locker, looking for an aspirin or something, but I end up knocking them over. Things are falling, and I give up. I go to the backyard and secretly light a smoke. It is wet in some parts. Tears. Turns out I unconsciously cry again. I inhale twice then stomp it on the ground without mercy.
I tell our families, friends, and neigbors that I will go to the service all by myself. Alone. I step outside, painfully looking back at our house, whose mortgage still take years to be fully paid. And now it is even bleaker than before. The thought of you and your lifeless smile will linger, will haunt until the day I never know. The day when I will finally decide to join you. But this is not the day. Maybe.
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