This is all my fault.

"This is all my fault."

It was the only thought that came into my mind as I lay on the pavement, particles of glass surrounding me.

If only I hadn't come home early; if only I hadn't had a reason to.

The meeting had run longer than intended, someone finally had a decent enough idea that their pitch session turned into a brainstorming session. Finally, we'd get somewhere with this month's budget and have the submission for the ad out before the deadline. The only reason our session ended was because the meeting room was booked for another group at 1:30pm. We were scheduled to be out at noon. We made a date for the coffee shop next door tomorrow morning, enough to give our brains a night's rest and come back with more energy tomorrow. We rushed out of the room and to our desks. I leave my phone out of the meeting rooms to avoid distractions. I came back to 3 missed calls from the neighbor and one text from my husband. The text read "I love you. Don't forget that." I found it sweet that he did little things like this. Flowers delivered to work, little notes with my coffee mug in the morning, ready to go. Sweet romance.

I decided to take off early, I worked better in my home office anyway, when I was brainstorming. I'd head home and make us a nice meal for dinner; there was a roast in the fridge that I had pulled for the weekend, but why not use it tonight? As I got in the car, I called Ashley, the neighbor who lived on our right. After two rings, she picked up, and seemed surprised to learn I wasn't home.
"The dog's been going crazy in the house, and I heard yelling, thought maybe you two were having a fight," she said, sounding nervous. "You heard another woman?", I asked, my blood running cold. "No," Ashley continued, "I just heard Evan yelling for about 20 minutes, pausing in between like someone was responding, and the dog going crazy." I thanked her for calling and sped off toward the interstate. I was home in record time, just under 15 minutes. Jack was still barking, sounding like an alarm. I walked up to the door and unlocked it, Jack immediately jumping on me then running down the hall. "Evan?", I called, checking the kitchen before walking down to the master bedroom. Jack's barking continued, getting louder as I walked in the doorway.

Evan was here, hanging limply from the rope he had tied around his neck. Apparently the fan could hold the weight of a full grown man, Evan had done well while installing it, I guess. I collapsed to the ground, blaming myself a million ways for the scene I've just walked into. Why had I not encouraged him harder to get help, to see someone? I allowed him to have these attacks, of panic, of pain, his flashbacks from war both at home and abroad. I'd tried to calm him down dozens of times when he had his fits, just to end up bruised and battered, for him to cry in my lap afterward, worried I'd leave him. It wasn't intentional, I knew that, but part of me was worried about if this happened outside the house, how would the world respond? Would he be locked up for domestic abuse or caught like a rabid animal and thrown into a sanitarium? There was never the question of Evan solving his problems himself, not like this.

I ran, pausing in the kitchen to dry-heave into the sink. I couldn't stay here, I had to leave. I'd deal with the consequences later. I ran to my car, heaved myself behind the wheel and screeched out the driveway. Where was I going? It didn't matter. I needed to call someone, get somewhere to explain what had happened. I had my phone somewhere. I had called Ashley earlier, hadn't I? I had tossed the phone beside me, and glanced at the seat, but saw it lying on the passenger floor. Reaching down, my head below the dashboard for only a second, when I heard the screech.

"This is all my fault."