Your eyes scream at me. I weep in response. It feels like blood.
“Please help.” You yell with every glance.
With each teardrop I shout, “I want to!” With each sob I whisper, “I can’t.”
You seem so small now, so shrivelled, like a grape left all day in the sun. Your eyelids droop, too heavy to hold open, your body slumps, all fight gone. You used to be full of such passion, such spirit, but I suppose that’s why it all had to end.
I clear my throat, “You did this.” It was supposed to be quiet, but it came out a shout, “You’re my husband, you’re meant to be mine.” You don’t respond. “That’s rude Sam.” I rattle the chains, still nothing. I think that you’ve gone.