Fear Grief Hatred Vengeance
He sat, watching her. The slow rise and fall of her chest as she took each breath, the only sign of life you could see without the help of a machine. He’d been coming at least once a week to check on her, the nurses had even started calling her ‘your girlfriend,’ when talking to him about her. He supposed he did have feelings for her, but there were so many things in the way of that he didn’t know with which of them to start.
Yet he came here, once a week, every Friday. He didn’t say much to her, just how we was feeling, that the world hadn’t ended and, because he didn’t know which one she liked best, a randomly chosen baseball or football team’s score. Mostly he just sat watching her, thinking. The most he ever spoke to her was the day he started painting, how excited he was that these images that were hidden in his mind were slowly being teased out.
He didn’t tell her that the very first one had been of her.
He never touched her, either, he could remember that day better than any of the others during his catatonia.
And after thirty minutes, or a little longer if he had a lot to say, he would always tell her the same thing as he left.
“See you next week, Faith. And remember, when you wake up, I have a present waiting for you.”
And then he would leave, for home.
He wondered if she had a place she called home.