“We found this in his bed, miss Lily. He left it for you.”
But now the “why?” does not matter.
I scan the doctor. He is about 169 centimeter tall and thin. Ageing has shown no mercy on him and even the blind would have little problem tracing the creases and furrows in his face. He has unusually oval face and his close-cut greyish brown hair dance in all directions. He wears a thick and dark plastic framed rectangular eyeglasses, which rests on his round slightly upturned nose and flappy ears.
I have no strong desire to know the “how?” either.
He calls me one more time. His voice is soft and filled with sympathy. My eyes begin to water again. I slowly lower my gaze from his face to his hands. His blue latex gloved left hand holds an envelope soaked in blood. It has already wrinkled and turned brownish red. In the eerie silence, I reach for it with a thumping heart.
He left me behind. Alone.
“I am sorry for the terrible thing that you have just witnessed miss Lily. All the time he was here, he was always happy and so full of life. I don’t know why he did what he did.”
The “because…” is not going to bring him back.
I close my eyes and run my fingers over the envelope. I could picture him sitting on the edge of his bed holding the thick paper pad on his lap with his right hand and the ballpoint pen on his left hand swiftly moving from left to right. I could hear the scratching sound of his pen on the paper. I come back to reality again and in despair realize that the content of the letter is not going to change anything now. They say it is never too late. But they are terribly wrong. It is beyond too late.
There is no undo button in life.
I look back at the man in the white coat. He gives me a “be strong” look and heads for the door. He takes slow but steady steps to the door. I follow his steps as the air around me thickens, the walls start closing in on me and the sight of the doctor blurs.