He never talks to me anymore . . .

It’s happened every night these last weeks—come midnight she calls for me, her sweet little mournful cry, leaving me no choice but to go to her. I stumble down the dimly lit hallway like a stranger, barely able to find my way to her room. All I can do is follow her cry, and it always leads me to her bed.

My little one . . . it’s all right . . . Mommy’s here . . . I expect her to respond to my voice, to my touch—but it’s as though my voice is silent, and my hands pass through her as though mist, as though she were water and my fingers were sieves. She looks beyond me to the place where I’m reminded of every torment I’d ever known, and I own and regret every ounce of anguish reflected in her furrowed brow. I’m so sorry, my darling . . . Mommy didn’t mean it . . . it was an accident . . .

Then he comes—he always comes. He ignores me because he’s small, just a small little man who can’t forgive. It was an accident—I’ve tried and tried to explain, but he simply won’t listen. He won’t listen, and he never talks to me anymore. He ignores me, and he takes her in his arms, cradles her in his lap.

“There there, my darling,” he says, “its all right. Everything’s all right.”

No it’s not all right! I’m right here! Why won’t you talk to me?

“Didn’t Mommy love me?”

Of course I do, my darling! Of course I do—more than anything!

“Of course she did.”

Of course . . . and don’t believe him if he tells you different! He’s the one, my precious darling . . . he’s the one who won’t listen!

“But not enough to stay with me?”

“Mommy was sick—she was very sad, and she couldn’t figure out how not to be very sad.”

“Is that why she chose to go?”

I chose no such thing! It was an accident! I swear it! An accident . . .

“Yes, my darling—that’s why.”

I try to wrench her from his arms, his unfeeling, selfish arms, but my grasp finds no purchase.

“Can I sleep with you, Father? I want to lay my head on Mommy’s pillow.”

No! Don’t! Don’t go with him!

“Of course you can.”

They rise, and they go, him still clutching her in his arms. I try to follow, but somehow I don’t have the strength anymore—I’m tired . . . so, so tired. And there’s blood . . . blood everywhere, pools of it, like molten roses spilled across the floor, and my fingers are sticky . . . sticky and warm from all the blood running across them from the gashes on my wrists . . .