“I’m sorry,” the veterinarian says. “She’s passed on.”
And so I weep.
I drive home with the knowledge that she will be gone forever. Tears in my eyes, scars on my heart, I try my hardest not to think about all the times we had, but find that they come regardless.
Me, driving to the shelter—
Me, picking her up—
Bringing her home, tucking her in, making her feel like she’d fit in—
The thoughts are cancerous in their portrayal, and ever persistent in their attempts to eat away at my sanity. I’ve already cried so many tears, and have faced so many battles, and it’s been less than ten minutes since I’ve left the animal hospital.
To think that she is gone, after all this time, is improbable.
But the stars don’t lie, nor do the bite marks on my wrist.
She is gone.
And there is nothing I can do about it.