Take Care, Sara

grimaced. The cold chilled her more than she already was, biting and unforgiveable. It jabbed at her, stabbing its hatred toward her into the sensitive skin of her flesh. Even the wind blamed her. You just killed your husband , it shrieked. Her body jerked from the icy air, from the guilt. It registered in her head that Lincoln was behind her, holding her hair away from her face. It was too much. Sara hung her head, the pain building and building and rupturing from her in broken sobs.
    “Come on, Sara, let’s take you home.” Lincoln let her hair fall through his fingers and reached for her.
    Sara let him help her, let him escort her to his truck. Her teeth chattered. The ice was crawling up her legs, entering her heart, and freezing it over. When he buckled her in, she wept harder. Sara was dying, dimming, fracturing. Lincoln stood by the door, saying nothing. He didn’t have to. Finally he shut the door and got in on the other side of the truck.
    ***
    The thought of going into their house, knowing with an aching finality he would never be in it again, was something Sara couldn’t deal with. Lincoln somehow knew that and had wordlessly driven to his house instead of hers. How long they’d sat in the unmoving and quiet truck, Sara had no recollection.
    The truck was off. She stared straight ahead, seeing him standing on the deck, adjusting his baseball cap, laughing. She could smell the dirt layered on him from work, the somehow sweet taste of beer on his lips. He turned and winked at her, his blue eyes promising he’d love her in all forms once they got home. She sucked in a painful breath, bending over from the agony of it. It was happening. Sara was finally crumbling, splintering into so many pieces she’d never be able to be put back together again.
    “Sara?”
    Lincoln’s fingers grazed her arm as she fumbled with the door handle, falling out of the truck and landing on the cold ground. She stayed that way, crouching, wanting to sink completely into the ground. Sara’s fingers clawed through the icy slush; her nails finding grass and dirt beneath it. Choked sounds of pain left her and Sara crawled, head down, out of her mind with grief. She wanted to be where he was; if he was nowhere, that’s where she wanted to be. Let me die. Let me close my eyes and not wake up. Let me be with him. Please. I never asked You for anything. Just this one time I’m asking You. Let me be with him! Sara flung her head back and howled. She screamed and screamed with all the agony living inside her. It wasn’t enough. It still hurt. She was full of anguish, would never be able to get rid of it all.
    Strong hands grabbed her under her arms, pulling her up and away from the cold, hard ground. Sara fought. She didn’t know why. She just knew she had to. He would thwart her plan. Lincoln would keep her away from what she wanted. Death. She wanted to die. She wanted to be with her husband. Sara kicked her legs and slapped at him, tortured gasps and cries bursting from her. She was hot; she was on fire, why didn’t she burn up and melt? Pieces of her were chipping, falling away, leaving her. What was she? Who was she? Ugly. Sara was ugly. She was ugly without him.
    “Let me go!” she shrieked, turning around and shoving him.
    Lincoln stumbled back, his chest heaving, tears streaming down his chiseled features.
    “I killed him! This is my fault! I killed him! He’s dead . Because of me. He’s dead.” Sara couldn’t breathe, she continued to breathe, she wanted to stop breathing. In and out, in and out, still she breathed. Sara breathed too fast, she breathed too heavily, but she still breathed. Her lungs were on fire, her body scorching, her throat dry flint ready for the littlest of sparks. And then she could burn up and die.
    “Stop this,” he pleaded in a low voice, a voice Sara barely heard under the roar of the flames burning her from the inside out.
    Sara tried to speak and only mewing sounds found their way out. The flames licked at her soul, turning it to ash. She was numb. Nothing was left inside her. It was all gone. Burned up. Dead. Ashes. Dust.
    Lincoln opened his arms, his head slightly tilted. He waited. If Sara went to him, he’d burn up with her too.
    “I killed him.”
    He shook his head, not speaking, arms still open. Waiting. Always waiting for her.
    “I want to die,” she confessed. “I’ve tried…I want to die, Lincoln.”
    Lincoln’s face distorted. “Don’t you fucking say that,