Monologue in a Hospital Bedroom

This is not a story. This is an act of contrition. This is a plea for atonement. A plea to myself.
I’m sitting in a hospital chair, by a hospital bed, in a hospital room. She’s lying in that bed and I’m sitting here, knowing that I’ve killed her.
They tell me she’s not dead, she’s merely in a coma from which she may still recover. And still I know I’ve killed her – I’ve killed something in her.
Because I wouldn’t listen. To her. To others.
She was just some girl, just some normal girl. They were expecting me to marry an actress, or at least someone in the business – a writer, a singer – someone exceptional.
But she was exceptional. Here, she was the exception. I realized as much. I guess he did too.
When the letters first started to arrive, followed by the flowers and the phone calls, I was both amused and flattered. Every day I get a bag full of fan mail. Was it so strange that my wife – for being my wife – had now a fan of her own?
What if he told her I didn’t deserver her and he would be so much better for her? How many girls had written to me saying she didn’t deserve me and they would be so much better for me?
Tomorrow, I’ll get a bag full of letters from grieving fans. How well they understand my pain!
Some nights, I’d get home and she’d curl onto my lap crying, because of one more letter, one more bouquet of flowers, one more message in the answering machine. And I’d kiss and caress her and treat her fears as childish fright.
Friends told me of kidnapping and people trespassing. Of murder. I didn’t listen.
Tomorrow friends will come, with flowers for her and the words I’m sure everything will turn out fine for me. Would I feel any better if the words were I told you so ?
One night I got home and there were no tears or her arms around my neck. Just a few drops of blood and a door left ajar.
He felt she needed to be protected from me. Some part of me agrees with him. They found him and he decided there was only one thing he could do.
He’s dead now, and they tell me she isn’t.
Tomorrow, if she opens her eyes and looks at me, I’ll for sure whether or not she’s dead to me – my wife, I mean.