Fear

Not many will know the feeling of watching one you love so much hurt themselves in a way that makes you feel like you’re suffocating. You see them suffering and you beg for the answer, the fix to all the problems. They scream, saying you are what keeps them alive. Without you, their heart doesn’t beat. You beg them to find something other than you to live for. You cry “having that much weighing on another is too much, its unsustainable,” but they don’t hear you. They become deaf to your pleas, your words are no longer enough. They’re drowning as you watch. You dive in the water just as you see them lose consciousness. You bring them to the surface, conduct CPR. Only those who have experienced it will know how much your body shakes in fear of watching a life slip away at your hands. It wasn’t your fault. “But I could have saved them.” It wasn’t your job to protect their heart. Despite the long believed thought, we are all alone on this earth. I love you, you love me, but eventually you will be gone, as will I. No matter how much you love a soul on this earth, to hold onto them as your life line is like floating in a life saver in the middle of a broad sea with no boat nearby. It supports you, but its not its job to help you swim the rest of the way to the shore.

I run into your room afraid of what I might find. I watch your eyes fluttering and your body shaking. I feel numb from the sight. I shake you, I scream, I cry, and then I whisper, pleading “please, please wake up, don’t leave like this.” You stir awake, dazed and confused. I ask you if you took the pills. You nod. Tears began streaming down my face even faster. You mumble and say you’re tired. The thought of you sleeping terrifies me because I am sure you won’t wake up. I drag you up. I get you seated on the bed and tell you to wait there. I walk to the door and then realize that I can’t leave you like that even to get you water. “Come with me.”

“I am tired, it’s hard to move my body.” I pull you against your will so that I don’t lose you in the process of trying to save you. I sit you back on the bed and order you to chug the water. You take a sip. I cry harder and you look at me with sadness and defeat and ask me what’s wrong. You knew what was wrong. I tell you to keep drinking. You say you’re not thirsty. Gulp after gulp you take a break and your eyes begin drifting away again. It scares me to death as I am slapping your legs, kneeling by the bed, looking up at you begging you to keep staying with me and keep drinking that water. The first round hits you; it’s been enough and you throw a bit up. I won’t let you stop though, so I make you drink, you throw up, you drink again. I can’t be sure that It’s over until I don’t see you drifting away. After a few good rounds of throwing up and chugging so much water, you’re done. We sit on your bed and wait. You ask to lay down, I beg you not to. I couldn’t be sure that it was over. That there was not still a chance of losing you. That night I laid with you afraid to fall asleep, afraid of what I might wake up to find.

I never thought you’d do it…

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