I’m standing lifeless in the center of Aundrea’s old room.

I can’t move, so I don’t.

I can’t speak, so I don’t.

I just stand there with my eyes closed, breathing quietly, trying to take in any scent of hers that lingers.

The scent that still reminds me of that day.

The day my life was taken away.

I wake up to the sound of Aundrea’s phone. The vibration of the phone against the nightstand is like a bee buzzing right in my ear. The sound stops for a second, then starts back up again. Finally, I open my eyes. Squinting, I try to read the numbers on the clock. My vision is still blurry as I try to focus my eyes against the sunlight shining between the blinds. 8:09am. Whoever is calling her this early better have a good reason.

I don’t feel Aundrea curled up against me as usual, so I reach behind me, feeling the bed to see if she is still here, or if she’s already awake.

When I make contact with her hip, I smile at the thought of her still in our bed. Moving onto my side, I move my hand to grip her hip, feeling the silk of her nightgown between my fingers. Her head is facing right, and her left arm is out to the side, her palm up. She looks so peaceful.

So beautiful.

Aundrea is truly the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and even more beautiful when she’s sleeping. The way her lips stay slightly parted as she breathes in and out and her chest rises and falls. There have even been times I would just lay my head on her chest and listen to her heartbeat. Just listening to the sound of deep thumps in her chest gives me a sense of completion. A sense of happiness.

When I look up at her chest, I wait. I wait for the moment she takes in a sweet breath and slowly releases it. It’s my favorite part of watching her sleep; listening to the sound of her breathing. I gaze at her chest, holding my own breath as seconds pass. Then, after what feels like a minute.

“Aundrea?” I whisper.

When she doesn’t stir, I reach down to her left hand and interlock our fingers.

My heart stops, and I immediately sit up. “Aundrea?” I ask again.

I get on my knees, leaning over her motionless body and grab her face, turning her head toward me. “Aundrea?”

She doesn’t move.

She doesn’t even react to the sound of my voice.

I bring both hands to her shoulders and lightly shake her. I don’t take my eyes off her face. Her eyes stay closed and her mouth relaxed.

“Aundrea!” I yell.

I look down at her chest, waiting for the breath.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

“Aundrea!” I scream. I shake her more.

She doesn’t flinch.

I bring my shaking fingers to her neck and feel for a pulse.

Learning CPR and doing it are two totally different things. All protocol goes out the window. What you do first ... how many breaths ... how many compressions. It’s as if someone or something else takes over your body. When you’re placed in a situation that requires you to do CPR, the adrenaline that takes over your body is unlike anything you will ever go through. Nothing matters except the person in front of you. And, when that person happens to be the love of your life, you feel as if you’re seeing yourself lying lifeless in front of you.

I don’t have time to think.

I react.

I jump over her body and lean my head down over her face to feel for air. To feel anything. I know I won’t feel anything, but I have to make sure. I have to know.

When I don’t feel her cool breath against my cheek, I tilt her head back. Not thinking twice, I open her mouth and bring mine on top of hers, giving her two short breaths.

Moving my hands to her chest, I place one on top of the other and start pressing into her perfect chest.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 … 20, 21 … 28, 29, 30.

I bring my mouth back to hers, filling my lungs with air as I do.

Breath.

Breath.

My hands move back to her chest. I press deeper counting out loud with each push.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11…

“Come on!”

12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18…

“Breathe!” I scream, looking down at her face. Her body jerks with each movement.

19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26…

“Come on, Aundrea! Breathe!”

27, 28, 29, 30…

Breath.

Breath.

I repeat this pattern over and over again until I lose count on how many cycles I’ve done. I can hear cracks in her chest with each compression I do. I know I’ve already broken a rib or two, and with each additional crack I know more are breaking. I keep saying, “I’m sorry” each time I press deeper into her chest and with each additional crack that fills the room.

“Come on, baby. Come on!”

I know I can’t keep doing this. Not alone. But I’m too scared to stop. I don’t know how long she has been like this, and I know every second counts. Stopping means less air. Less of a chance to bring her back to me.

I realize that sooner or later, I’m going to need help. Pausing, I look down on the nightstand for her phone. I fumble with the phone as I get into the call screen, exiting away from the two missed calls from Genna. I dial a number that has been programmed in my brain since I was four years old: 911.

“911 what is your emergency?”

“My wife … I— I need help! She needs help! She’s not breathing!” I cry into the phone at the top of my lungs. I don’t know why I am screaming. I know the operator can hear me just fine, but a part of me thinks they’ll know it’s an emergency if I scream. That whoever is on the other line will hear my distress and it’ll somehow make things happen faster.