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“Okay.” He sighs, obviously displeased with my decisions. “I’ll have the medical equipment rep see you before you leave. She’ll get you set up with everything you need for in-home treatment—hospital bed, wheelchair, bathing necessities, an IV stand if needed, etc.” He glances at his notes again. “I understand you have refused to meet with our aid worker about setting up a nurse for daily visits.”

“Correct. Valerie already had a medical team and nurse working with her for her depression. I’ve given their information to the nurse and signed a release waiver for your files to be sent to them.”

An awkward pause hangs in the air.

Dr. Wu clears her throat. “Mr. Stone, do you have any questions about your wife’s images or her diagnosis?”

“No.”

“Okay, then.” She logs out of the laptop. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Stone.”

Dr. Gorran closes the door behind Dr. Wu and turns to me, his brow furrowed. I say nothing and stare back, a game we are quickly becoming bored of.

“Are you okay?” he says finally.

No response.

“If I may, sir ...” He takes a deep breath. He’s exasperated by me, and I don’t blame him. “I’ve seen this many times before with caregivers who have themselves also been through a traumatic event. I see the markings of significant dissociative disorder in you. This happens when a person disconnects from their thoughts, feelings, memories, or sense of identity. It’s a coping mechanism. But, Mr. Stone, please hear me. If your trauma isn’t dealt with and addressed head-on, this disorder can turn into something that can greatly affect personal and social relationships, and in the most dramatic cases, lead to a full-on mental breakdown.”

Gorran drones on, and all I can think of is how I want to put a bullet between his eyes.

The gall of this man. He’s standing there talking to me about my trauma? My trauma. The dense twat doesn’t get it. My concern isn’t about me—it’s about the trauma I’ve caused everyone around me.

Valerie.

Sabine. My dear, dear, Sabine.

My fault.

It was all my fault.

I swallow the knot in my throat. “Thank you for your time,” I say, cutting him off mid-sentence because I can’t take another word from his mouth.

Gorran nods and takes a step back, clearly disappointed in me.

Get in line, motherfucker.

Instead of waiting to be dismissed, I push past him and stride down the hall. And as with every other time, the chitchat stops, and all heads turn in my direction. I can feel the nurses’ eyes burning into me as I hunch my shoulders and contemplate breaking into a sprint and hurling myself through the window at the end of the hall.

I hate this place.

Dipping my head, I push into Valerie’s room. I fall back against the door and close my eyes.

I see Sabine. Every time I close my eyes, I see her.

Her face, those eyes, her smile. Her body as it flew backward. The blood pooling on her stomach.

The pain on her face as she took a bullet to save me.

Sabine saved my life.

It is all so twisted and messed up. It should have been me who died. It should have been me who saved her.

The guilt is unbearable, eating me from the inside out. Day and night, hour by hour, minute by minute, it shreds my insides.

You worthless, useless, pathetic excuse for a human being.

You should be dead. You should be dead.

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