I don't own anything. Zip. Zilch.
Mary could say that she had the heart to take the tickets when she saw him lying in the hospice bed, when he forgot about her. She could say that she wanted to take them, as she left him, because she wanted to make absolutely certain that she was never again on his mind and never cause him pain. But it would be a lie. If he couldn't remember, then he could have a token of her to haunt him as he would haunt her for all of eternity.
Honestly how could she, the supposed stronger one, live with watching scar after scar mar his dark skin on her behalf? Why could she never just save herself? Because she was weak with him, physically and mentally. The fire in the air whenever he found her, over and over again in the past, burned into her memory, leaving the spiritual equivalent of the wounds he took for her in the moments of mortal weakness when they were supposed to find happiness, not heartbreak.
Mary remembered screaming, screaming his name as police drug her from the ambulance. As it drove further and further away the number of men needed to hold her back increased until she could stand no more.
Why did it always have to end exactly as before?
When Mary stood gazing into his unseeing eyes and saw no gleam of recognition on his haggard face she knew what her choice would be. He always found her before. But not this time. She hated him for making her weak, as she loved him for the very same reason. She hated the desire to protect built so strongly into every fiber of his being that nearly ended his life, and therefore, inadvertently, hers, more than once. For her. She loved him. She hated the overwhelming happiness that overflowed into agonizing sadness. Every. Single. Time.
She'd finally had enough. This time it would be different, not like before. The chance lined perfectly with her frustrations and his amnesia. She would not regret the decision. For once she would suffer more than him while he lived in forgetfulness.
So Mary reached for the tickets on that un-fateful night, meaning to leave him with one. His eyes keenly followed her movements and locked, confused and sleep-ridden, on her trembling fingers. With angry tears—she was drowning again—Mary slipped her hand away, turned, and quietly left him behind.
She disappeared with her gilded guilt, bent on enduring alone because she was the stronger one, but, leaving a trace of herself in his hands, it appeared only physically.
And it all ended just as before. While she suffered for a time, unknowingly, along with him, he suffered, alone, the most.
What can I say? I love the movie, and these two. Together. Or separate. Either way. I lovingly call them HanMar to those who agree that these two should totally have some serious make-up sex. Now where the hell is that sequel I've been hearing about...?