Please...please God....

These thoughts and no other ran their laps around my mind as I held onto her hand, being careful as to not knock out the IV drip.  Even the rhythmic beats of the heart monitor couldn't pull me from my fantasy that none of this was happening, that somehow there was going to be some sick and disturb doctor coming through the door to tell me this was fake.  Someone of mortal flesh that I could curse, someone who could be punished.

This fantasy lasts only when my eyes are closed.  I keep making the mistake of opening them and looking at her.  No matter how many times I glance, no matter how many times I open my eyes, hers would remain closed.  I have yet to see her clearly without teary walls blocking my vision, but her limp hand in mine tells a tale that renders sight pointless.  It renders thought useless.  My eyes quickly shut and my head quickly falls, allowing the hot river of tears to run down my chin and land on her IV tube.  

Open your eyes!  Please, open them and blame me!  Curse me to death if not to just hear you speak!  It is my fault for being useless!  It is my fault for not healing you!

I finally regain what little composure there is left in me.  It isn't my fault she's like this, but it should be.  Then at least there's someone to blame.  Then I could cope.  No, there would be no coping.  There would be no tomorrow had this been my doing.  I am caught in the middle.  I am neither the solution nor the problem. What am I?

What am I doing here?  What keeps me by her bedside, unable to even look at her?  I know the answers, but it is such that I needn't even think them.  Nothing on Earth could pull me away from this bed.  There isn't a temptation that could be offered that could get anything more than a cold shoulder.  I don't care about logic, about hope, about doctors, cures, monitors, any of it!  I would trade places with her without a single thought in my head.  My heart would act quicker than any thought.

The monitor is slowing down.  The beeps are loosing their rhythm and my hand is loosing it's grip.  Where is my superhero?  This is when he swoops in, gives me the cure at the last second, and she springs up out of bed, looking like she just got done getting ready for a formal ball.  This is the part where my tears hit her hand and somehow bring her back from the brink through the miracle of love.  This is the moment that defines the line between drama and tragedy.

I take one good look at her, but barely even raise my head before my eyes fall back to the floor, tears hitting the ground before my sight.  Lies!  Every last miracle is a lie!  Why do we humans keep suspending ourselves in the realm of fantasy even when the obvious is inevitable?  What is the point of holding out hope when we know there is no such thing?  It's like casting a fishing line into a rock quarry hoping to catch a bass.  You just look stupid and you're destined for disappointment.

The beeps slow more and more as my grip gets looser and looser.  Eventually the beeps turn into a solid tone that is our equivalent of a death bell, clearing my thoughts.  It's over.  Such crushing relief I feel.  This is what it feels like to land back in reality.  This is such a cruel act of God to make me right.  How dare they hook her up to useless machines and taunt those around her, giving their false hopes.  It's all my fault.  It's everyone's fault.  It's everyone's loss.

It's finally time.  My hand is so reluctant to let go.  It has clutched so hard and hoped so much.  It has to learn when to quit.  It's over, it's time to go.  Come on, just let go.  Let go so I may finally leave this godforsaken place and....

Wait, my hand is limp, but the hold is not broken.  Her hand is...HER HAND!

"NURSE!  NURSE!  HURRY!"