I don't know what to say. Everything has changed.
Everything I love was stripped from me. Like ripping out my hair.
I sit in the hospital bed. I brush my fingertips across the blankets.
My only chance was taken from me. My only hope.
I reach under the covers and pull out the shredded photo, barely stuck together with surgical tape the hospital lent me.
Then there was you.
You could hardly see the image anymore with the fading colors and yellow adhesive.
You were the day to my night; the love to my hate; the smile to my frown; the passive to my aggressive.
I feel a warm drop of water fall down my cheek. The curves of my lips start to tremble, and I let out a sob.
I scream and the nurses come rushing in. They have my arms in their hands and they are saying something, but I'm not listening. I scream and cry and rock back and forth. I can't do anything. Nothing is to be done. Except tell.
Never forget me.
So I began to tell them my story: