You stood in the center of the bedroom, the floorboards creaking under your weight as you gripped the small, clear bag. The fine white powder shifted inside, mocking the promises made in hushed tones under bedsheets and the vows exchanged in front of a priest. The front door clicked. Heavy boots thudded against the hardwood, a rhythm you usually found comforting, but now it felt like a countdown.

Frankie walked into the room, his jacket halfway off his shoulders. He stopped dead. His dark eyes darted from your tear streaked face down to your hands, or rather, what was in your hands. For a second, his expression was pure, unadulterated guilt, but it soured into a sharp, defensive sneer faster than you could blink.

"Give it here," he snapped, his voice gravelly. He didn't move toward you, he just stood there, bristling like a cornered animal.

"You promised, Frankie," you whispered, your voice cracking. "When we got together. When we got married. You said this part of your life was dead. Why are you doing this? How could you do this now? We just buried our daughter, Frankie! How can you bring this into our home after losing her?"

The mention of the baby hit him harder than it should have. His face contorted, the veins in his neck bulging as he took a predatory step forward.

"Because of that! That’s exactly fucking why!" he roared, the sheer volume of his voice making you flinch. "You think I’m just partying? You think I’m having a good time?"

The explosion died as quickly as it began, leaving a vacuum of suffocating silence. Frankie’s shoulders slumped, but his eyes remained wild, red, and haunted. He looked away from you, staring at a fixed point on the wall as if he could see through the plaster.

"You weren't there," he said, his voice dropping to an uneven whisper that hurt worse than the shouting. "When she went... you were in the kitchen. You didn't see it."

He finally looked at you, but he wasn't seeing you. He was back in that crib side.

"I was holding her," he choked out, a bitter, hysterical laugh bubbling in his throat. "I was tickling her feet, trying to get that little hiccup giggle she did. And then it just... stopped. She went still. I was right there, looking at her, and I watched the light just fucking drain out of her eyes. I’m a pilot. I’m a soldier. I’m supposed to fix things, I’m supposed to extract people from the worst goddamn places on earth, and I couldn't breathe life back into my own kid."

"Frankie, stop," you sobbed, stepping toward him. "It wasn't your fault. The doctors said... they said it was SIDS. There was nothing anyone-"

"I don't give a shit what they called it!" he barked, shaking his head violently. "It wasn't fair. She deserved a chance to grow up. She deserved to at least walk, or say my name, or... something."

He slumped onto the edge of the bed, his head falling into his hands. His voice came out muffled, broken.

"I-I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see her looking at me, waiting for me to do something, and I’m just paralyzed. I see those eyes everywhere." He looked up, his gaze landing back on the bag in your hand with a desperate, pathetic hunger. "That stuff?... It’s the only thing that shuts the voices up. It’s the only thing that goes loud enough to drown out the sound of that silence in the nursery."

He looked up at you, his eyes wet with unshed tears as his voice trembled with each word.

"I just want to stop seeing her die for five fucking minutes."