"I'm sorry, Maud. I had another episode. I didn't recognize you earlier today."
He looked up at me, his eyes rimmed with red.
"I'll take my medication. I'll take so much of it. Please, can you forgive me?"
As he spoke, he fumbled with a pill bottle, grabbed a fistful of pills, and shoved them into his mouth.
Every other time I'd seen him do something this extreme, I would rush over with tears in my eyes, pull his hands away, hold him tight, and tell him:
It's not your fault. You're just sick.
But now, I only watched. Still and silent.
Memories from the past two years surfaced unbidden.
Caspar in the grip of an "episode," slashing me with a knife, trying to tear my face apart.
Mistaking some strange woman for me, then turning around and beating me with his fists.
But every time he "came to," he would hold me and sob, apologizing through his tears.
"Maud, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Just wait a little longer. I'll get better."
I believed him. Again and again. I forgave him ninety-nine times.
I traveled to every remote temple and holy site I could find, dropping to my knees every three steps, not caring when they bled raw.