Love is a Battlefield [ SpaMano Fanfiction ]

Love is a Battlefield

Lovino's POV ;;

    A singular tear slid from my hazel eye as the men in their pristine and crisp white uniforms spoke to me. I couldn't hear a word they said after I understood what they were explaining on and on about. Did they not realize that a simple sentence could have summed it all up, maybe make the pain that rose into my chest hurt just that much less? Of course they didn't, they were only here to tell me the news in the most sugarcoated way they could, endlessly reassuring me that everything would be okay when it was plainly obvious nothing would ever be okay. Right, I'd have to remember to take the word out of my dictionary, the word okay. Nothing was going to be all right, I could never just move on from this and maybe even forget. They didn't know me, they wouldn't know how I took news like this, how vulnerable my frail heart was or how they had just severed it. I ran a shaking hand through my hair, my breathing fast and faltering slightly. I wouldn't break down in front of them, though; I was so much better than that. No, I wasn't better than that at all, I was so much lower than being able to tough it up and take the news. I fell down to my knees, a desperate cry managing to pry it's way from my dry throat. My eyes were squeezed shut, more tears tracing intricate paths down my red cheeks. I choked out cries, unable to pull myself together for the men in their white coats and concerned faces. It was my fault, no matter how much they tried to convince me that it wasn't, it really was. He had always told me how great I was, despite my low self-esteem. He made me believe in that lie; how could I be great?

    I can still remember that night; the room stank of alcohol and was noisy with trashy music. We had been dating exactly a year, and we were celebrating it by getting drunk and stupid. Our words were slurred as we sweet-talked each other and giggled over things that weren't even funny. We were drunk and couldn't think rationally, and apparently calling a taxi wasn't an option for us. I had insisted I could drive; we'd be fine, I wasn't a reckless driver. Not when I was sober, anyways. I'm pretty sure I drove just a bit over the speed limit, and we were both still giggling and slurring about how cute or handsome the other was. I had turned my head, as if to give him a sweet peck on the cheek. As my slightly chapped lips pressed against his soft and tanned skin, I could hear the screeching of wheels as the car suddenly swerved. The car flipped, air bags inflating in a split second as the car crashing. I was okay aside from a few scratches and bruises, but Antonio was so far from okay. He had been jerked pretty hard by the crash, and I could tell he was unconscious. The stench of blood clouded my nose in an instant, and I was pretty sure he was probably bleeding to death right there. My brain was slow, though, and I fumbled with my phone to call 9-1-1. It was obvious I was still wasted while I was on the phone, trying to tell them where we were and what had happened. It took them awhile, but they arrived with their blaring sirens and tense atmosphere. We were drove quickly to the emergency room, the sirens nearly deafening. I couldn't worry then, though, considering I was still a bit drunk.

    After spending the night in the hospital to make sure I wasn't severely injured, I was told that Antonio was. He had hit his head and it had cracked up and he had suffered major blood loss and a pretty bad concussion. I'm pretty sure he had more than just a concussion and the such, but worry had plagued my mind and I practically blocked out the rest, insisting over and over that I see him. I begged and pleaded, but I couldn't go in. He was undergoing surgery that could potentially save his life. They just didn't understand, did they? I wanted to see him, I wanted to apologize because I had this feeling deep in my gut that this was all my fault. They didn't let me see him, though, not until after the surgery was over. I remember practically running into the room despite being told not to. Seeing his vibrant eyes so dulled and almost sleepy sent a pang through my heart. Yet he still seemed happy, aside from knowing the odds. I tentatively reached for his hand, holding it in a death grip as I stared at him with wide, glassy eyes. He seemed so calm and accepting of what could very possibly be his end, despite being hooked up to so many beeping machines and having doctors whisper amongst each other as if keeping a secret from us both. I bit my lip, my free hand clenched into a fist and my nails embedding themselves into the skin. I was so terrified, shaking and on the edge of tears while he just layed there, giving me the most sweet and honest look. I think that was when I started crying, seeing that he was ready for whatever happened; good or bad. Warm tears rolled down my cheeks and to the tip of my chin or the corners of my mouth as we just looked at each other, silent aside from my panicky breath. I wanted to stay so badly and never let go of his hand, but they made me leave the hospital for the night, insisting that he'd be perfectly okay with them.

    He wasn't okay though. Shards of the glass had penetrated his brain and it was a wonder he hadn't died on impact. They didn't tell me this, I glanced at one of their neat little clip boards and saw the notes scribbled down in hasty penmanship. Upon seeing it, I quickly walked into Antonio's room, only walking so I could at least try to abide by the rules. When I walked in, he was sleeping soundly, the corners of his lips curved up in a small, genuine smile. I watched him just sleep for a little bit, my hand making its way into his. His hands were cold, but I knew that was because most hospitals are cold in the first place. He was real peaceful looking, so still and comfortable. I leaned down, placing my lips onto his and murmured a soft, "sweet dreams," before I had to leave. I kept the image of him sleeping so soundly in my head, and that managed to relax me and make me feel a little more settled. Maybe he'd recover and go back to being my Antonio that I've dated for a year and three days. Little did I know, though, that he wasn't even asleep when I visited him.

    The very next day, as I walked towards his room in a routine way, seemingly excited to see him awake now and smiling despite everything that had happened. The room was empty, though, smelling as if they had just cleaned it. Hope began to emerge into my chest; maybe my Antonio was being let out today! I walked hastily towards one of the front desks, but I was stopped in my tracks by one of the doctors. I opened my mouth to ask him my question, but he spoke first with words that weighed my heart down and broke it in two:

    "I'm sorry, Mr.Vargas, but Antonio died yesterday, we think while you were visiting. He died in his sleep, however, and it was painless to him. He's in a better place now." He paused for a moment before continuing on with his sentence, "if you need help with anything, we're always here if you need us."

    No, this couldn't really be happening, was the first thing that ran through my mind. All of the hope I had felt just a minute before was shattered into irreparable pieces. I stared at him, eyes wide as saucers. I felt broken and incomplete, as if a major part of me had been stolen away. The one who had picked me up when I was at an all time low, the one who had given me happiness and confidence in myself, the one who took care of me when no one else would, he was gone. He wouldn't ever come back and the worst part of it was that I never got to thank him for all he had done. He had saved me and rebuilt me to be a better person. I never got to tell him how every time I called him an idiot or a bastard that I never meant it, that he was the best I could have ever wished for, better than I had ever really deserved. I hadn't even been able to tell him exactly how much I had loved him, the fact that I couldn't stress how much I really loved him made me want to break. This whole ordeal made me want to collapse onto my knees and cry and scream how unfair it was. The fact that it was all my fault, that if we had bought a taxi or walked or waited until we sobered up to leave, we'd be at home snuggling and watching stupid soap operas, but instead we got this and it was all my fault.

     I don't understand how anyone could expect me to forgive myself, I knew I never could and never would. I'd killed my boyfriend; oh but he was so much more than just my boyfriend. Yet, I had brought him to his death, and he hadn't done anything wrong. He was the sweetest person you'd ever meet, his vibrant green eyes radiating with happiness and he'd speak with so much optimism and love. He was so great, he had so much more to live for and I couldn't help but wonder why he had to die and not myself. Why did life have to be such a cruel game; testing us to see if we'd manage to evade our breaking point or if we'd hit it real hard and crumble; testing us to see if we'd be capable of rebuilding ourselves and our lives or if it was the end for us and too many pieces were missing. I can assure you that too large of a piece was missing from me and that I'm beyond repair now that he is gone. I'll never be the same again, not without him here.

    Tears slid from my glassy eyes as these thoughts raced through my head. I was so numb and deaf and unresponsive, I was just so focused on the fact that it was all my fault. He was my everything, he had my heart and all of my love, and I let him die with it. I couldn't get it back now, I couldn't ever love again in fear that I would kill whoever it was. No one could ever compare to Antonio, though, and I can't find myself able to move on from such an instance. All I ever do is hurt those I love, I really don't think love is something I was meant to experience and keep with me forever. I ruin and destroy every good feeling of happiness by screwing up in such a massive way. I know I will never forgive myself, I know I won't recover fully after all of this. I wish so much that I can been the one to receive the shards of glass to my brain; the one who had to lie in a hospital bed surrounded by murmuring doctors and beeping machines. I deserved it, he never did.

    Epilogue ;;

    I had to go through months of mental therapy so that I could try and go on with a normal life again. I knew I never would, but I was required to go through it for my own health and my own good. Despite it, though, it never really helped and I knew it never would. I was afraid to love; of hurting those I offer my trust and friendship to. I became antisocial and secluded from the world, locked up in my room and weeping every time I remember him. I couldn't stand living without him, my life had been away once he was gone. As I predicted, I never fully recovered, as my heart was already offered and secured with Antonio. I gave him everything, he was my happiness and he was my love. Now that he is gone, I have neither.