“Sara?”
Lincoln’s fingers grazed her arm as she fumbled with the door handle, falling out of the truck and landing on the cold ground. She stayed that way, crouching, wanting to sink completely into the ground. Sara’s fingers clawed through the icy slush; her nails finding grass and dirt beneath it. Choked sounds of pain left her and Sara crawled, head down, out of her mind with grief. She wanted to be where he was; if he was nowhere, that’s where she wanted to be. Let me die. Let me close my eyes and not wake up. Let me be with him. Please. I never asked You for anything. Just this one time I’m asking You. Let me be with him! Sara flung her head back and howled. She screamed and screamed with all the agony living inside her. It wasn’t enough. It still hurt. She was full of anguish, would never be able to get rid of it all.
Strong hands grabbed her under her arms, pulling her up and away from the cold, hard ground. Sara fought. She didn’t know why. She just knew she had to. He would thwart her plan. Lincoln would keep her away from what she wanted. Death. She wanted to die. She wanted to be with her husband. Sara kicked her legs and slapped at him, tortured gasps and cries bursting from her. She was hot; she was on fire, why didn’t she burn up and melt? Pieces of her were chipping, falling away, leaving her. What was she? Who was she? Ugly. Sara was ugly. She was ugly without him.
“Let me go!” she shrieked, turning around and shoving him.
Lincoln stumbled back, his chest heaving, tears streaming down his chiseled features.
“I killed him! This is my fault! I killed him! He’s dead. Because of me. He’s dead.” Sara couldn’t breathe, she continued to breathe, she wanted to stop breathing. In and out, in and out, still she breathed. Sara breathed too fast, she breathed too heavily, but she still breathed. Her lungs were on fire, her body scorching, her throat dry flint ready for the littlest of sparks. And then she could burn up and die.
“Stop this,” he pleaded in a low voice, a voice Sara barely heard under the roar of the flames burning her from the inside out.
Sara tried to speak and only mewing sounds found their way out. The flames licked at her soul, turning it to ash. She was numb. Nothing was left inside her. It was all gone. Burned up. Dead. Ashes. Dust.
Lincoln opened his arms, his head slightly tilted. He waited. If Sara went to him, he’d burn up with her too.
“I killed him.”
He shook his head, not speaking, arms still open. Waiting. Always waiting for her.
“I want to die,” she confessed. “I’ve tried…I want to die, Lincoln.”
Lincoln’s face distorted. “Don’t you fucking say that, Sara!” he thundered, storming toward her. “You don’t ever say that again, you understand?” Lincoln’s voice shook. “Stop saying it, stop thinking it.” His fingers dug into her arms, showing her she wasn’t dead, not yet.
“I’m lost. I’m lost and you can’t save me, Lincoln.” Sara stared up into his pained eyes, caressing his features with her gaze. He was always trying to save her.
His jaw clenched and his grip turned painful. “Yes. I can. I will. I just lost my brother. I’m not losing you too. I’m never losing you, Sara, never. I’m not letting you go. Ever. Your life is worth living. You don’t get the right to throw that away.”
The conviction of Lincoln’s words, the way his eyes were locked on hers, nearly made Sara believe he could, that Lincoln had the power to save her, to hold on to her tight enough that she wouldn’t be lost, wouldn’t fade into nothing, wouldn’t burn up and disintegrate. She almost hated him for it.
***
Everywhere Sara looked she was hit with something that reminded her of him. She sat on the couch, an untouched cup of coffee cooling between her fingers. It was heavy and she set it down on the coffee table. Lincoln was in the bedroom that used to be his parents’, fixing it up for her to sleep in. They had gotten a hotel room, refusing to stay in the house full of him. Sara understood. This house was close to being as unbearable to be in as hers was.
The meltdown outside was a locked subject. Hours ago, it still replayed over and over in her head; the look on Lincoln’s face, the fierceness in his tone; the overwhelming despondency that was with her now even. He’d brought her back from the brink once again. But he wouldn’t always be around. Lincoln wasn’t responsible for her. He thought he was, but he wasn’t.