GONE.
death was supposed to be easy. you were supposed to go drift off to a peaceful, eternal sleep and follow the bright light into heaven where you’re then surrounded by all you can eat buffets and be pain free. it wasn’t supposed to be struggling for air while your friends, while your husband, weeped over you and begged you to stay. she wished she could have told him how sorry she was that she couldn’t win the fight, how she so desperately wanted to stay, how much she loved him. but god, she was so very tired. no, there was nothing enchanting about dying like the stupid romanticized novels or corny chick-flicks izzie once adored claimed. there are many things she doesn’t know, like if angels take their shoes off inside heaven or how perfume is made. she doesn’t know if this is hell or if this is even real. one thing she does know is it’s sure not heaven since she is attending her own funeral, watching all of her loved ones break their hearts over her empty body.
looking away isn’t an option. neither is walking away or —- ghosting away. whatever, the point is, izzie has to see her and alex’s story through to the end. because this was it. after what was left of herself from her past life is buried into the earth, people would resume their lives. sure, they’ll cry for a few weeks but then they pick themselves up and move on, because that’s what people do. not alex, though. she knew from the moment it was happening that her death would be a catastrophic blow to him. immense grief overwhelms the blonde, not for her own loss of life but for the man she left behind.
there he finally stands next to the exuberant casket. it was just what izzie wanted, beautifully embellished with pretty flowers of all kinds. he looks exhausted, defeated, lifeless. all she wants to do is to hold him and tell him how she loves him so deeply that her bones ache —- she’d tell him how much she misses him. already. alex was pure radiance, the sun she could touch and kiss without getting burnt. dread coursed through every tip of her being as he stares at her picture, the anticipation of what her husband could possibly say grueling.
the voice that usually brings her comfort is now filled with grief, which is quickly replaced with vexation. a l o n e . he was alone and it was her fault. granted, she couldn’t help the dying part, however now she was someone to be added to his list of all the people that abandoned him —- something her heart couldn’t bear the repercussions of. no, it wasn’t fair. he stormed away in a haze and all she could do was watch while he returned to the sidelines, only this time right beside her. being in such a close proximity, izzie could see the way his jaw twitched and his tear ducts threaten to betray him. (she didn’t have to look to tell that’s what he looked like, though. it was a textbook habit for alex when he was upset.)
when her body begins it’s descent into the ground, a hand instinctively seeks out his hand to hold, only to find it simply passes right through (this definitely was hell). her words whispered soothingly into his ear with no expectation for them to cross the barrier between real life and whatever this was, but she said it anyway. ❛ i’m here, alex. i’m here, and i love you, and i’m sorry. ❜
the chief demanded he take some time off to grieve, but the house is a minefield. he can’t move, he can’t breathe, he can’t think without something detonating —— and he can’t even go bury his anguish in surgery. the living room explodes with images of perfectly decorated holidays that he used to dream of having as a kid. it’s thanksgiving with a turkey no one else could cook without burning the place to the ground and izzie giving him a reason to be thankful. it’s christmas with thoughtful gifts nestled neatly beneath a glistening tree, carols crooning from the forgotten-about radio she dragged out of the closet and dusted off. it’s new years eve with snacks littering the table and streamers strung from the ceiling and the ball drop on the television. it’s all of those things even when izzie knew that half of them wouldn’t make it because they’d be called into surgery.
and the bedroom is no better. her things are everywhere, invasive, unrelenting. her side of the bed no longer bears her indentation since she spent so much of the last couple of months in the hospital, but he can still see her there. he had never really been one to cuddle while sleeping, but if he didn’t wrap himself around her at night, ice cold feet would press up against the back of his legs, fingers leaving trails of snowflakes along his skin as hands curled up beneath his shirt, effectively disrupting his sleep. what he would give now for the half-hearted, half-asleep grumblings that would come from both of them until he finally turned over, pulled her close, and just went to sleep.
alex can’t even go to the damn bathroom without remembering her curled into the fetal position on the floor, mourning the loss of denny in that prom dress that made her look like something straight out of a fairy tale. he didn’t understand then —— the urge to just lay down and not move. he understands it now though. it would be poetic for him to do the same. hymns could be written about it, flowery and tragic; but he’s never been flowery and tragic, so after pausing in the spot where she laid for a moment, alex decides to use the downstairs bathroom instead.
the kitchen, though, that’s the worst. the memories flood him without warning, one in particular far more distinct than the others. he sees her in the dewy glow of sunlight, which is either shining on or coming from her. he’s pretty sure it’s the latter. effervescent izzie, unaware that he’s been leaning on the door frame of the kitchen while she’s been baking, incapable of taking his eyes off of her. she’s (almost) as much of an artist here as she is in the o.r., though this dance is gentler, less of a high and more of a mellow. when she finally notices his presence, she beams, rose-petal lips parting to expose ivory in a grin that makes him weak every single time.
but then he comes back to reality, still leaning on the door frame but gazing upon an empty kitchen. she isn’t baking in the kitchen or decorating for christmas or using him as a heater. she isn’t about to walk through the front door and give him that smile and kiss him before buzzing on about her day. the shock of her death has finally begun to wear off, and he has to take a seat at the counter before he winds up collapsing on the floor. expression is empty, vacant, but tears are rounding the apples of his cheeks and falling freely into his lap. isn’t it cruel that the only person he wants to comfort him is the one causing him so much grief? just for a moment, he swears he can smell banana muffins. it only makes him cry harder.