S.O.S.

I sat on the edge of her bed, the white walls making me squint to see. I held in my hands the one personal Item she had here in the facility. It was a glass-less picture frame, with a picture of me in it. I remember when she took this photo, though, I don't know why she chose this one to take with her in her last five minutes at the house. I didn't like this picture of me. I looked angry. My eyes were on something just to the right of the camera, but looking at the picture, I looked like I was looking left. I had worn a nice suit, my hair done to look good. We went out to that night, to a nice restaurant. She insisted that she had to take my picture, and some guy had walked past, saying some rude comment. I was glaring at his back when she snapped the picture.
Behind me, April began to stir. Her eyes popped open, and she launched out of bed, yelling wildly as she threw her arm into my back. She quieted, cradling her arm. I sighed, putting the frame down.
"I have to go now. I'm going to be late." I stood, putting my shoes on, and gathering my coat.
"No!" she screamed. "No, Harry! I-"
"No, April. I have to leave. Now." I pointed to the door. "Go get your pills." I opened the door, turning just so I could mumble the same thing I always do: "I'll be back later." And I was gone.
For a moment, while she was sleeping, I had forgotten that she was... the way she was. I had turned to look over my shoulder at her, seeing her peaceful face, and not-screaming.

But now, I was at work, remembering every gruesome inch of our history together. I sat at my desk, spinning in my chair, waiting for the phone to ring.
"Lunch!" Somebody called out. I dragged the bag to my desk, leaving it there. I pulled her picture out of my wallet.
It was the last picture I had ever taken of her. It was a few weeks before she had been taken to the 'Home for the Hopeful'. I had forced her out of the house, and taken us to the beach. She was feeling low that day, kept insisting she was fat, and I shouldn't look at her. She was ugly, so I couldn't look at her. She kept telling me she was something or other, and I couldn't look at her. I had snapped that picture when she wasn't looking. It made me sad. She was downgrading herself, and even though her back was turned, she was still covering her face.

Before I knew it, I was driving home, the music playing quietly. I would pick up clothes, and shower, then I would go back to the asylum. Just like I always did.

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