***
I had no idea where I was going when I made it to the hospital originally. I went to reception and asked by name, and I was directed to the third floor ICU. When I got there, I demanded to see Zane, even lied and tried to tell them I was his partner. I reek of desperation as I stand before overworked nurses in a full-length gown and adorned in the finest of pearls. However magnificently dressed, my makeup is streaking my face, my eyes bloodshot and raw from crying so much. I wear my heartbreaking anguish over every inch of me. I am the epitome of a beautiful mess.
Granted limited access, I’m only allowed to stand outside of Zane’s window, only able to look in at him from a distance. Just seeing his chest move is enough gratification to calm me. I want to run into him, but he looks so fragile, I’m terrified of hurting him, of causing him any more pain.
Not only that, but he has no idea I’m here. He’s been out of surgery for over two hours, but he’s still critical, meaning that he could well slip into some tempting abyss of pleasurable oblivion and never come back. As I step forward, my hand coming up to touch the pane of glass, I bite my lip, willing myself to not shed anymore tears over the uncertainty of Zane’s newest fate. He is still alive. The machine beside him, the one beeping steadily with each heartbeat, tells me so.
He has no gown on his upper half, and I can only presume that's because of the amount of bandages currently smothering his gunshot wounds. He has so many wires and tubes I have no way to work out which one leads where. They’re a mess of colors – a tangled chaos around him.
Then it hits me - I shouldn't need this reminder of how precious life is.
I hate myself for wanting to know how consumed I could be by Zane when all along I was already a total victim to him. I had speculated, applied notion that I did indeed wholeheartedly love him, but I never knew how hell bent crazy the thought of him dying before me would drive me.
I never wanted to know if this was the deliverance.
"Sorry, can I help you?"
I look up to see an unknown petite nurse standing beside me. I sniffle and nod my head in affirmative. I look back at Zane and then back to the nurse. This time I notice how she’s looking me up and down, questioning why I’m dressed the way I am.
"Is he going to be okay?" I ask cautiously. I don't want to hear that he's on the brink of near death and it's all hanging in the balance. I don’t explain the fight I already had with a nurse to get this far or how I fled my own birthday because the man I loved was dying.
The nurse gives me a small smile. "I'm sorry; I can't give out that information unless you're family."
“Please,” I beg, my eyes watering. I’m in limbo here and I don’t know what to say or do to get answers. “I just need to know he’s going to be okay.” My hopeless anxiety is getting the better of me. “He was promising me he’d be safe only hours ago and now he’s like this. I just need to know how he is.”
Suddenly her face lights up with recognition. "Yes," she says. "I thought I recognized you." She laughs as my face clouds with uncertainty to her claim. "Your name is Amelia, isn't it?" she asks me so causually, and I just nod my head. "He was brought in clutching a photo of you and managed to say your name a few times." She heads into Zane’s room, and I watch her in a dazed stance as she goes to the bag of his belongings and pulls something out. Coming back, she presents me with this crumpled, bloodied image. “You must be something special to him.”
“He loves me,” I tell her with a watery smile, my tears falling free as I look at the photo.
I remember this moment – Zane had set up a picnic for us in front of the Hudson River. He had prepared all of my favorite foods, got my favorite wine, and in return, he got his favorite picture of me. I have sunglasses on my head, smiling brightly. I feel jealous of myself. The sting of my own happiness hurts, and I wonder if we can ever get back to that point. The magnitude of this has me faltering. The nurse steps in with a gentle ease, pulling me back toward the row of seats just behind us. She sits with me as I sit in shock.
“I’m sorry,” I say as I shake myself out of this moment. “You don’t need to sit with me. I’m not a priority here.”
“Seems you need just someone to support you right now,” she gently comments back, and I hear the sincerity ooze from her. “You do realize he will be okay, don’t you?”
“Do I?” I ask her disbelievingly. “Because, right now, I have no idea how he is, apart from the fact he nearly died.”