I am sitting on the floor beside you. Your breathing is shallow, ragged. The air through the window is freezing. Too cold for spring. The glass is broken. I cannot close it. You are freezing.
Patting your hair I feel the short coarse bristles. They irritate my skin. But how can I stop? How can I stop when this might be making you feel just the smallest bit better?
I can't stop.
Your neck is twisted horribly. Not broken, just twisted. You hold it there for some reason. Does it make you feel better? Is the pain less when you hold your head like that? It looks so unnatural to me. But how should I know what is comfortable. I have never tried to be comfortable while waiting to die. I wish I could ask you these questions but you wouldn't answer me. I wish you could tell me what I can do to ease your pain. The only sound you make now is screaming. Screaming and that shallow, ragged breathing.
Do you want it to be over? Should I have let them kill you painlessly, or were they right, do you deserve the chance to try and fight through this? I have no idea what to do. No matter what I do it is the wrong thing. If I let you die I would always wonder if you might have pulled through. When you don'd pull through I will hate myself for every extra moment of suffering that my weakness caused you.
"I'm sorry" I whisper quietly. The only thing I have left to say. The thing I have said to so many before you. The thing I will some day say again. Those two words break me. They contain all the mistakes, all the sorrow, all the death that I have ever faced. I know this isn't my fault, but I'm still sorry.
So so sorry.