Some Stuff
Nov 10, 2013 23:11:42 GMT -8
Post by Penny Royals on Nov 10, 2013 23:11:42 GMT -8
From an RP I did with Alastor/iHodor/whatever he goes by now. xD
{Part One}The sky was peaceful.
It was a dull pinkish orange, fading away at the edges and tapering off into grey at one half of the sky, and a deep cerulean on the other. Stars blinked in and out of sight, trailing with the moon behind the sun. Birds caterwauled above the city, and airplanes drifted along like a paper sailboat on a stream, past the horizon and out of earshot.
Beneath, in the city, street lights flickered on, and town lights off. A gentle breeze passed through, the night air cooling the summer heat. A few souls were still walking in the well-lit area of town. Few people went past where the street lights ended. Fewer, past the sidewalk's.
Nestled deep in the heart of both of these was a house, two stories. The lights upstairs were off, and downstairs, only a single light remained. Through the blinds, this light poured out onto the lonesome porch swing below that rattled with the wind.
Screams could be heard, though not for long, and not for very far. Their nearest neighbors, living at the very edge of this range, had grown accustomed to the shouts of the family that lived there. All things considered, this seemed mild - no high-pitched shrieks of the girl, no strange silences of the even stranger orphan the matriarch of the family had taken in the previous year. Only the argumentative, constant bellowing of two hefty voices that matched pitch in an imperfect unison.
With this in mind then, it is of course no surprise that they didn't let the events of the night disrupt their usual activities, closing their blinds, playing party games as families, and other such things that good neighbors do when they are pointedly ignoring the antics another.
If they had, perhaps things would have turned out much differently.
Perhaps a knife wouldn't have been pulled out on the eldest boy, brunette, seventeen, with his belongings packed into one tote bag and his backpack, who was trying so desperately to leave the house. Perhaps he wouldn't have pulled out a gun on the aging black-haired woman. Perhaps they would have alerted the authorities, or at least the blonde orphan, walking home with ear buds in and arms full of grocery bags.
And perhaps if he hadn't had his ear buds in, he wouldn't have walked in on the dueling duo, who by this time had fought tremendously, and had somehow switched weapons. The boy was winning, to some extent, the knife he now held having taken out the majority of his mother's eye, and the gun inches away from her grasp.
Perhaps if he hadn't walked in, the brunette would have gotten away. Perhaps he would have killed her and fled into the night, found the younger boy and his younger sister and taken them both away.
Perhaps all three would have simply sprouted wings and flown off.
But that's not what happened.
"No-!"
That was the breathless last word of the brunette boy, as he turned around from his stance of having one foot and one arm holding the woman's arm in place, while the other held the knife high in the hair, poised to strike out her throat, to see the blonde who had just now entered, and stood there with the groceries in his arms like a dear in the headlights.
The older boy would try to say something else. His throat let out a 'guh,' before it happened.
She held the gun.
She aimed.
She fired.
The gun blew off a retort that seemed impossibly loud to all three in the room. Blood and unidentified liquids of all sorts sprayed across a radius of a few feet, and he flew back almost immediately, neck broken, to lay at the edge of the carpet.
The woman, gasping for air, pushed herself to her shaky legs now, gripping the coffee table to steady herself as she looked between the boys. Her own son, lying there, battered, life draining from him. His face looked so starstruck, with pale lips and eyes wide open, reflecting the ceiling fan spinning up above. It was, at the moment, too hard to look at him for long, nor look at his blood-spattered clothing. She had much more important things to worry about now - like the boy who stood still at the door, most of the groceries in his arms still, though a few had dropped to the floor and rolled almost like a halo down to the dead boy. His own eyes, staring downwards to the older boy, were wide, his face flushed as if it were the dead of winter rather than the middle of summer. He looked young - too young - how old was he now? Fourteen? He didn't look like it now, not with that expression, not with that air of vulnerability that burst forth, emanating from his whole being -
"Ryan," She finally had the strength to say, clearing her throat and standing the rest of the way up, straightening her own bloody blouse and moving to cover her eye, almost self-consciously. "Help me."
The rest of the groceries fell from his arms then - luckily, he hadn't been buying anything breakable - and he rushed over to her. Everything was spinning by this point but her - he didn't even realize he'd nearly fallen himself until she steadied him with her bloodred hands.
"Mommy's got to go get washed up. You... you sit right here, and I'll be back in just a second." She stopped, after sitting him down on the couch, and her tone became much darker. "Don't move from this spot until I get back, young man."
He did as he was told, and she walked down the hallway to the bathroom, splashing water on her face, cleaning and dressing her wound before looking at herself in the mirror. She fixed her hair and makeup, and immediately left.
She moved to the body now.
"Come on, help me."
"...W-where are we taking him?" The boy asked, turning those big brown eyes up to her, sheepish and almost accusing. She kept her voice level.
"To the basement. Mommy'll get this all sorted out."
He held the boy's legs, and she took his arms, leading the carcass and the boy both down the long stairwell into the darkness of the basement. They set him down on the ground, and she walked over to the area with all of the power tools she ever used, getting down a large plastic container, and carefully drenching the clothes and the body.
"Sit on the top step," she told the blonde boy firmly. He was quick to comply. She put the canister away, and pulled out a match.
She lit the body, and watched it burn. Then she lit a few candles, and, as the last of the fire died down - quicker than she imagined, she gathered up the ashes. She stared at them in her hands for a few moments, pensive, uncertain. Then she looked up.
"Ryan, Sweetie. Go get Mommy one of the stuffies you bought for May's birthday today, please?"
"W-why?" He asked, arms wrapped around his knees.
"Because."
A few seconds later, she held a soft, fuzzy little white rabbit in her hands, and set it on the work bench. With the blonde clinging to her side (quite literally), she slit it's stitching throat, pulled out several layers of stuffing guts, and poured the ashes inside. She pushed the stuffing back in, and stitched it back up.
"There. Good as new. No one will even know except me..."
She stopped then, looking down at the boy who was still basically attached to her. Her eyes met his, and she watched as big tears welled up and came down rhythmically.
"Now listen to me." She bent down so she'd be on his level, and thumbed away one tear that rolled down his cheek. "You're going to forget you ever saw anything, got it? You didn't see anything, you didn't hear anything, and if you did, you certainly wouldn't tell anyone ANYTHING. Right, Sweetie? Because you know what'll happen if you do, right?"
The boy nodded, attempting to steady his breathing. She smiled, stood up, and patted his head.
"Good. Now let's go clean upstairs before May gets home, and Mommy'll make you feel all better..."
It was a dull pinkish orange, fading away at the edges and tapering off into grey at one half of the sky, and a deep cerulean on the other. Stars blinked in and out of sight, trailing with the moon behind the sun. Birds caterwauled above the city, and airplanes drifted along like a paper sailboat on a stream, past the horizon and out of earshot.
Beneath, in the city, street lights flickered on, and town lights off. A gentle breeze passed through, the night air cooling the summer heat. A few souls were still walking in the well-lit area of town. Few people went past where the street lights ended. Fewer, past the sidewalk's.
Nestled deep in the heart of both of these was a house, two stories. The lights upstairs were off, and downstairs, only a single light remained. Through the blinds, this light poured out onto the lonesome porch swing below that rattled with the wind.
Screams could be heard, though not for long, and not for very far. Their nearest neighbors, living at the very edge of this range, had grown accustomed to the shouts of the family that lived there. All things considered, this seemed mild - no high-pitched shrieks of the girl, no strange silences of the even stranger orphan the matriarch of the family had taken in the previous year. Only the argumentative, constant bellowing of two hefty voices that matched pitch in an imperfect unison.
With this in mind then, it is of course no surprise that they didn't let the events of the night disrupt their usual activities, closing their blinds, playing party games as families, and other such things that good neighbors do when they are pointedly ignoring the antics another.
If they had, perhaps things would have turned out much differently.
Perhaps a knife wouldn't have been pulled out on the eldest boy, brunette, seventeen, with his belongings packed into one tote bag and his backpack, who was trying so desperately to leave the house. Perhaps he wouldn't have pulled out a gun on the aging black-haired woman. Perhaps they would have alerted the authorities, or at least the blonde orphan, walking home with ear buds in and arms full of grocery bags.
And perhaps if he hadn't had his ear buds in, he wouldn't have walked in on the dueling duo, who by this time had fought tremendously, and had somehow switched weapons. The boy was winning, to some extent, the knife he now held having taken out the majority of his mother's eye, and the gun inches away from her grasp.
Perhaps if he hadn't walked in, the brunette would have gotten away. Perhaps he would have killed her and fled into the night, found the younger boy and his younger sister and taken them both away.
Perhaps all three would have simply sprouted wings and flown off.
But that's not what happened.
"No-!"
That was the breathless last word of the brunette boy, as he turned around from his stance of having one foot and one arm holding the woman's arm in place, while the other held the knife high in the hair, poised to strike out her throat, to see the blonde who had just now entered, and stood there with the groceries in his arms like a dear in the headlights.
The older boy would try to say something else. His throat let out a 'guh,' before it happened.
She held the gun.
She aimed.
She fired.
The gun blew off a retort that seemed impossibly loud to all three in the room. Blood and unidentified liquids of all sorts sprayed across a radius of a few feet, and he flew back almost immediately, neck broken, to lay at the edge of the carpet.
The woman, gasping for air, pushed herself to her shaky legs now, gripping the coffee table to steady herself as she looked between the boys. Her own son, lying there, battered, life draining from him. His face looked so starstruck, with pale lips and eyes wide open, reflecting the ceiling fan spinning up above. It was, at the moment, too hard to look at him for long, nor look at his blood-spattered clothing. She had much more important things to worry about now - like the boy who stood still at the door, most of the groceries in his arms still, though a few had dropped to the floor and rolled almost like a halo down to the dead boy. His own eyes, staring downwards to the older boy, were wide, his face flushed as if it were the dead of winter rather than the middle of summer. He looked young - too young - how old was he now? Fourteen? He didn't look like it now, not with that expression, not with that air of vulnerability that burst forth, emanating from his whole being -
"Ryan," She finally had the strength to say, clearing her throat and standing the rest of the way up, straightening her own bloody blouse and moving to cover her eye, almost self-consciously. "Help me."
The rest of the groceries fell from his arms then - luckily, he hadn't been buying anything breakable - and he rushed over to her. Everything was spinning by this point but her - he didn't even realize he'd nearly fallen himself until she steadied him with her bloodred hands.
"Mommy's got to go get washed up. You... you sit right here, and I'll be back in just a second." She stopped, after sitting him down on the couch, and her tone became much darker. "Don't move from this spot until I get back, young man."
He did as he was told, and she walked down the hallway to the bathroom, splashing water on her face, cleaning and dressing her wound before looking at herself in the mirror. She fixed her hair and makeup, and immediately left.
She moved to the body now.
"Come on, help me."
"...W-where are we taking him?" The boy asked, turning those big brown eyes up to her, sheepish and almost accusing. She kept her voice level.
"To the basement. Mommy'll get this all sorted out."
He held the boy's legs, and she took his arms, leading the carcass and the boy both down the long stairwell into the darkness of the basement. They set him down on the ground, and she walked over to the area with all of the power tools she ever used, getting down a large plastic container, and carefully drenching the clothes and the body.
"Sit on the top step," she told the blonde boy firmly. He was quick to comply. She put the canister away, and pulled out a match.
She lit the body, and watched it burn. Then she lit a few candles, and, as the last of the fire died down - quicker than she imagined, she gathered up the ashes. She stared at them in her hands for a few moments, pensive, uncertain. Then she looked up.
"Ryan, Sweetie. Go get Mommy one of the stuffies you bought for May's birthday today, please?"
"W-why?" He asked, arms wrapped around his knees.
"Because."
A few seconds later, she held a soft, fuzzy little white rabbit in her hands, and set it on the work bench. With the blonde clinging to her side (quite literally), she slit it's stitching throat, pulled out several layers of stuffing guts, and poured the ashes inside. She pushed the stuffing back in, and stitched it back up.
"There. Good as new. No one will even know except me..."
She stopped then, looking down at the boy who was still basically attached to her. Her eyes met his, and she watched as big tears welled up and came down rhythmically.
"Now listen to me." She bent down so she'd be on his level, and thumbed away one tear that rolled down his cheek. "You're going to forget you ever saw anything, got it? You didn't see anything, you didn't hear anything, and if you did, you certainly wouldn't tell anyone ANYTHING. Right, Sweetie? Because you know what'll happen if you do, right?"
The boy nodded, attempting to steady his breathing. She smiled, stood up, and patted his head.
"Good. Now let's go clean upstairs before May gets home, and Mommy'll make you feel all better..."
{Part 2} April, as usual, towered over the boy. On her right hand, a hammer hung limply. She didn't normally use these things... but today she had been feeling under much more pressure than usual. The boy in front of her perhaps had broken ribs, and his left arm hung almost uselessly at his side.
He had stopped screaming. And she had hit him one last time before hearing the pop.
It was infinitely louder in his head. To him, all the pressure, all the pain, all the repressed emotions exploded within his head, and coursed out through whatever orifices were near. His neck and jaw reset, and he stood perfectly still.
To her, it was a smaller pop - but still strangely audible. Not even two seconds later, blood gushed down from both of his nostrils, down his lips, dripping off his chin - and he didn't even seem to notice. That was what had stopped her from swinging again - but she dropped the hammer as his eyes grew wider, and, as he opened his mouth, perhaps to say something, more blood streamed down.
She reached down for the hammer again, regaining her composure as she saw him begin to breathe deeply - which caused him to cough out more blood. She swung.
He tore one of the drawers off from the dresser, with an unseen strength, and smashed it into the hammer. It broke, and pieces flew off everywhere. But it was long enough for him to catch her off-guard, grip the hammer, and wrench it out of her grasp. She stumbled backwards, gasping for air as he stood over her now - in control, and with a sputtering little laugh twinkling out into the room and the hallway, sounding so terribly innocent that it would be hard for anyone to realize what was going on in there.
He brought the hammer down.
She screamed as it hit her hands. Her wrists snapped backwards, caving in, and it collided with her nose. He reared back and brought it down a second time, and a third, a fourth...
Her shrieks of horrible pain echoed through the house and down the street. His laughter mixed with it, grew louder and more anguished as time went on - until it was no longer laughter, and full-out sobs. By that time, her head was a stain on the floor.
Stumbling, he gripped the door, pulling it open, and tripping into the hallway. He rested against the next door - which would be the one to Max's old room, and attempted to catch his breath, only succeeding in hacking on the blood. His hand gripped the doorknob, and as the door opened, fell into the room.
It was a relief to him that the little girl was nowhere to be found, but it was also a shock. The only things in the room remaining were the television, the bed, the mirror... and the rabbit.
Upon seeing the last one, his hacks grew into heaving, and he pulled his hands to his mouth.
He thought he, and perhaps he really did, vomited several times while dry heaving. Either way, his hands were covered with blood that pooled within their cupped palms and dripped to the floor, along with his knees. He looked up, to find the room spinning, and gripped at the wall and the bedding with all his might to steady himself, to steady the room, to make it all stop rotating so violently.
His eyes caught himself in the mirror, and he almost didn't recognize himself with all the blood that he had lost resting all over himself - he wasn't even sure if it was just his own, either. His skin was icily pale, and his eyes sagged even as he tried so hard to keep them open.
The room had finally stopped spinning. Slowly, he lifted himself to his feet, and sat down on the bed, calm, and reached over to hold the rabbit tightly to his chest. He remembered what it was, what was in it - WHO was in it, and he looked down at it.
Rhythmically, and steadier than he or anyone else could have imagined, he walked down the stairs to the living room, through the kitchen, the hall, and down into the basement. He set the rabbit down, opened up the shelves above the work bench, and pulled down the gun.
He gripped the shelf, steadying himself as the room went spinning once more. Realizing that it didn't matter this time, he grabbed up the gun and made sure it was loaded.
He stuck it in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.
"Yeah, I understand Mrs. Belrose - when you're used to hearing domestic arguments, you don't have a tendency to call in what you do hear."
"So we're not in trouble, Sergent Dantes?"
"Not at all. Just know that you very well could have perhaps fixed all this before this happened, and saved at least two lives."
At the end of the quiet little street were three police cars, a fire engine, the fire chief's engine, and an ambulance, sirens silent, but lights still blinking on and off.
"I never could imagine this to have happened, Sergent Dantes. How did you all know to come down, anyway?"
"Apparently the little girl got away to a friend's house. Her friend's mom had called us and we came to check everything."
"I see... she was the only survivor?"
"The only surefire one, at least," the man said, glancing over to the group coming out of the large garage-like door to the basement. "Frank says it's a stretch, but the other kid might live... probably in a coma and or with massive brain damage, so if you'll call that living..." He heaved a heavy sigh. "I don't get things like this, Mrs. Belrose. I don't get how things can get this bad in such a short period of time... and this gruesome..."
"What happened?" She asked, rather quicker than he'd imagined.
"I'm not sure you'd like to hear the details. Just know that there's very little chance anyone'll be buying this house anytime soon."
A stretcher was loaded into the ambulance then. Sergent Dantes and Mrs. Belrose could just make out the form lying on the cot, blonde hair wrapped tightly by bandages, a breathing mask forcing his chest up and down, arms and legs and general body bound firmly to the cot. She sighed.
"It's a pity. What'll be done with the girl?"
"She'll be staying with the friends - it's the best she can have right now, to be among those who love her in such a tragedy."
"Understandable. I'd offer for us to take her in, but I doubt she'd like to be so close to her old home..."
"Hey, Rod!" A voice called. Sergent Dantes looked over to the form waving at him from the lit-up door.
"What is it?"
"We found a little rabbit... think it belongs to the girl."
"Well, we'll take it with us back to the station. Poor kid's probably going to be devastated without it."
"Roger that, Boss."
With that, the little white rabbit was tossed into the car, unmoving from its spot, and it's cold, black, beady eyes staring at all directions at once, flashing with the lights outside.
"Safe."
He had stopped screaming. And she had hit him one last time before hearing the pop.
It was infinitely louder in his head. To him, all the pressure, all the pain, all the repressed emotions exploded within his head, and coursed out through whatever orifices were near. His neck and jaw reset, and he stood perfectly still.
To her, it was a smaller pop - but still strangely audible. Not even two seconds later, blood gushed down from both of his nostrils, down his lips, dripping off his chin - and he didn't even seem to notice. That was what had stopped her from swinging again - but she dropped the hammer as his eyes grew wider, and, as he opened his mouth, perhaps to say something, more blood streamed down.
She reached down for the hammer again, regaining her composure as she saw him begin to breathe deeply - which caused him to cough out more blood. She swung.
He tore one of the drawers off from the dresser, with an unseen strength, and smashed it into the hammer. It broke, and pieces flew off everywhere. But it was long enough for him to catch her off-guard, grip the hammer, and wrench it out of her grasp. She stumbled backwards, gasping for air as he stood over her now - in control, and with a sputtering little laugh twinkling out into the room and the hallway, sounding so terribly innocent that it would be hard for anyone to realize what was going on in there.
He brought the hammer down.
She screamed as it hit her hands. Her wrists snapped backwards, caving in, and it collided with her nose. He reared back and brought it down a second time, and a third, a fourth...
Her shrieks of horrible pain echoed through the house and down the street. His laughter mixed with it, grew louder and more anguished as time went on - until it was no longer laughter, and full-out sobs. By that time, her head was a stain on the floor.
Stumbling, he gripped the door, pulling it open, and tripping into the hallway. He rested against the next door - which would be the one to Max's old room, and attempted to catch his breath, only succeeding in hacking on the blood. His hand gripped the doorknob, and as the door opened, fell into the room.
It was a relief to him that the little girl was nowhere to be found, but it was also a shock. The only things in the room remaining were the television, the bed, the mirror... and the rabbit.
Upon seeing the last one, his hacks grew into heaving, and he pulled his hands to his mouth.
He thought he, and perhaps he really did, vomited several times while dry heaving. Either way, his hands were covered with blood that pooled within their cupped palms and dripped to the floor, along with his knees. He looked up, to find the room spinning, and gripped at the wall and the bedding with all his might to steady himself, to steady the room, to make it all stop rotating so violently.
His eyes caught himself in the mirror, and he almost didn't recognize himself with all the blood that he had lost resting all over himself - he wasn't even sure if it was just his own, either. His skin was icily pale, and his eyes sagged even as he tried so hard to keep them open.
The room had finally stopped spinning. Slowly, he lifted himself to his feet, and sat down on the bed, calm, and reached over to hold the rabbit tightly to his chest. He remembered what it was, what was in it - WHO was in it, and he looked down at it.
Rhythmically, and steadier than he or anyone else could have imagined, he walked down the stairs to the living room, through the kitchen, the hall, and down into the basement. He set the rabbit down, opened up the shelves above the work bench, and pulled down the gun.
He gripped the shelf, steadying himself as the room went spinning once more. Realizing that it didn't matter this time, he grabbed up the gun and made sure it was loaded.
He stuck it in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.
"Yeah, I understand Mrs. Belrose - when you're used to hearing domestic arguments, you don't have a tendency to call in what you do hear."
"So we're not in trouble, Sergent Dantes?"
"Not at all. Just know that you very well could have perhaps fixed all this before this happened, and saved at least two lives."
At the end of the quiet little street were three police cars, a fire engine, the fire chief's engine, and an ambulance, sirens silent, but lights still blinking on and off.
"I never could imagine this to have happened, Sergent Dantes. How did you all know to come down, anyway?"
"Apparently the little girl got away to a friend's house. Her friend's mom had called us and we came to check everything."
"I see... she was the only survivor?"
"The only surefire one, at least," the man said, glancing over to the group coming out of the large garage-like door to the basement. "Frank says it's a stretch, but the other kid might live... probably in a coma and or with massive brain damage, so if you'll call that living..." He heaved a heavy sigh. "I don't get things like this, Mrs. Belrose. I don't get how things can get this bad in such a short period of time... and this gruesome..."
"What happened?" She asked, rather quicker than he'd imagined.
"I'm not sure you'd like to hear the details. Just know that there's very little chance anyone'll be buying this house anytime soon."
A stretcher was loaded into the ambulance then. Sergent Dantes and Mrs. Belrose could just make out the form lying on the cot, blonde hair wrapped tightly by bandages, a breathing mask forcing his chest up and down, arms and legs and general body bound firmly to the cot. She sighed.
"It's a pity. What'll be done with the girl?"
"She'll be staying with the friends - it's the best she can have right now, to be among those who love her in such a tragedy."
"Understandable. I'd offer for us to take her in, but I doubt she'd like to be so close to her old home..."
"Hey, Rod!" A voice called. Sergent Dantes looked over to the form waving at him from the lit-up door.
"What is it?"
"We found a little rabbit... think it belongs to the girl."
"Well, we'll take it with us back to the station. Poor kid's probably going to be devastated without it."
"Roger that, Boss."
With that, the little white rabbit was tossed into the car, unmoving from its spot, and it's cold, black, beady eyes staring at all directions at once, flashing with the lights outside.
"Safe."
{Part 3}Beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep be-
Her hand rested on the off button. It had been there since she had woken up, longer than she’d cared to admit, but she had waited for the alarm to sound, and had listened to its cacophonous caterwauling more than she ever had before. Her ears still ringed, and a chill soared down through her body as she remembered it in the silence.
She held the blankets in her hands, using more force than was probably necessary to toss them off of her body, sat up, and twisted herself out of bed to grab clothes and head to the bathroom.
The water was still cold as she got into the shower. She didn’t mind it, and stood there unmoving beneath the torrential downpour, rubbing shampoo and conditioner through her hair. When she got out to brush her teeth and put on deodorant, she stared at the mirror, and focused all her energy on a single speck of an unknown substance.
Dressed in his favorite outfit, she stepped out under the graying sky and watched her breath form extra clouds while she let her car unthaw.
It was six AM.
She absent-mindedly turned on the local radio station – bubblegum pop, something she’d always had affection for – and didn’t listen to it. She drove. She didn’t stop for breakfast or to use the bathroom. She felt no urges for either.
By the time she hit I-5, it was around 7; Tacoma, 8. She arrived at Harborview, even with the traffic, at 9 o’clock, parking underground a few blocks away and trucking up the steep incline to the hospital itself.
The floor was huge, and there were elevators and staircases going up on a few different sides. She reached into the pocket of her coat, pulling out a long strip of paper that simple said ‘5th floor, 3rd door in right wing.’ She shoved it back into her pocket, and went off to the nearest elevator.
It took her a solid ten minutes to find the room. She stopped for a moment at the door, and felt her heart skip a beat. She waited to gather her bearings, and opened the door.
The room beyond the door was warmer and stuffier than she would have guessed. The windows were shut tight, with the curtains closed, letting in no natural light. The only source of light came from the wall hanging lamp above the bed, poised down on its occupant like an invasive searchlight.
Monitors beeped and buzzed in huddled masses on both sides of the bed, droning on like the sounds of a funeral bell. At first she didn’t even recognize the person in the bed, with blankets drawn tight.
The boy was barely breathing, and the monitor that displayed his heart rate was laboriously slow. Wires ran up through his chest, his arms, his neck, monitoring every surface; one IV dripped a clear liquid into his wrist, and the other seemed to be filled with blood slowly draining into him in one last attempt to work. His skin was almost as pale as the bedding he lay on. A breathing mask covered the vast majority of his face, and tubes were shoved down his nose and his throat - all regulating breathing, or perhaps more. Dirty bandages covered half of his head, and his hair hung limp about his face and the pillows, caked with sweat and tinged pink at the edges.
His eyes were fixed shut, and although the doctors had done their best to clean his face, dried blood still caked the edges of his nostrils and lips. To her, they covered his face beneath the mask.
Liz found herself floating inside. She didn’t remember moving, but here she was, next to the bed. She pulled the one chair in the room close to the bed, and forced a smile. She grasped his right hand with both of hers, feeling how cold it was, and held it to her lips, softly blowing. She had to make it warmer. Maybe if she did, they’d both wake up and realize that none of this was happening.
She watched him with morbid, obsessive fascination. She watched his chest slowly rise and fall, as if someone within were shoving his lungs and ribs outward, forcing him to keep breathing on and on, to show he still survived, that there was maybe still a chance. She stared at his face, memorizing every blemish, every pore, every stain, every scar, every crimped eyelash, every imperfection; she begged for a twitch, but to no avail, his face remained still as ever.
She realized that she was inches from his face now, his frozen hand still clasped within hers. She looked down at it, at the blood that had settled between his nails, at the cracks in the skin, and she kissed each one.
Hot tears raced down her cheeks and off her chin. She let one hand move to the other side of his head, and, full-out sobbing now, kissed his forehead.
“Please wake up… I need you to wake up…”
Still holding his hand, she dropped her head to his chest, bawling like a small child.
“Please… please…”
This wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. Why did this sort of thing happen? Why was her boyfriend killed, murdered so wretchedly that no one could even figure out a reasoning or motive behind it? Why now, was his brother, her brother, for all intents and purposes – why was he about to go as well? What happened in that house, what caused the amount of stress that one boy would be killed trying to run away, and the other have an aneurism and attempt suicide? Where did justice come to play in all this? Where did God stand? Where did human decency stand?
She wasn’t sure how she had made it down to the cafeteria, nor how long she’d been here for. But in front of her sat a half-eaten bowl of her favorite, stale cereal, and her body felt exhausted and frailer than she ever imagined it could be. It took her what felt like hours to stumble out of the cafeteria, the hospital, and eventually finding her car.
She rested her head on the steering wheel for a few minutes, then put her keys in, and drove back home.
Her hand rested on the off button. It had been there since she had woken up, longer than she’d cared to admit, but she had waited for the alarm to sound, and had listened to its cacophonous caterwauling more than she ever had before. Her ears still ringed, and a chill soared down through her body as she remembered it in the silence.
She held the blankets in her hands, using more force than was probably necessary to toss them off of her body, sat up, and twisted herself out of bed to grab clothes and head to the bathroom.
The water was still cold as she got into the shower. She didn’t mind it, and stood there unmoving beneath the torrential downpour, rubbing shampoo and conditioner through her hair. When she got out to brush her teeth and put on deodorant, she stared at the mirror, and focused all her energy on a single speck of an unknown substance.
Dressed in his favorite outfit, she stepped out under the graying sky and watched her breath form extra clouds while she let her car unthaw.
It was six AM.
She absent-mindedly turned on the local radio station – bubblegum pop, something she’d always had affection for – and didn’t listen to it. She drove. She didn’t stop for breakfast or to use the bathroom. She felt no urges for either.
By the time she hit I-5, it was around 7; Tacoma, 8. She arrived at Harborview, even with the traffic, at 9 o’clock, parking underground a few blocks away and trucking up the steep incline to the hospital itself.
The floor was huge, and there were elevators and staircases going up on a few different sides. She reached into the pocket of her coat, pulling out a long strip of paper that simple said ‘5th floor, 3rd door in right wing.’ She shoved it back into her pocket, and went off to the nearest elevator.
It took her a solid ten minutes to find the room. She stopped for a moment at the door, and felt her heart skip a beat. She waited to gather her bearings, and opened the door.
The room beyond the door was warmer and stuffier than she would have guessed. The windows were shut tight, with the curtains closed, letting in no natural light. The only source of light came from the wall hanging lamp above the bed, poised down on its occupant like an invasive searchlight.
Monitors beeped and buzzed in huddled masses on both sides of the bed, droning on like the sounds of a funeral bell. At first she didn’t even recognize the person in the bed, with blankets drawn tight.
The boy was barely breathing, and the monitor that displayed his heart rate was laboriously slow. Wires ran up through his chest, his arms, his neck, monitoring every surface; one IV dripped a clear liquid into his wrist, and the other seemed to be filled with blood slowly draining into him in one last attempt to work. His skin was almost as pale as the bedding he lay on. A breathing mask covered the vast majority of his face, and tubes were shoved down his nose and his throat - all regulating breathing, or perhaps more. Dirty bandages covered half of his head, and his hair hung limp about his face and the pillows, caked with sweat and tinged pink at the edges.
His eyes were fixed shut, and although the doctors had done their best to clean his face, dried blood still caked the edges of his nostrils and lips. To her, they covered his face beneath the mask.
Liz found herself floating inside. She didn’t remember moving, but here she was, next to the bed. She pulled the one chair in the room close to the bed, and forced a smile. She grasped his right hand with both of hers, feeling how cold it was, and held it to her lips, softly blowing. She had to make it warmer. Maybe if she did, they’d both wake up and realize that none of this was happening.
She watched him with morbid, obsessive fascination. She watched his chest slowly rise and fall, as if someone within were shoving his lungs and ribs outward, forcing him to keep breathing on and on, to show he still survived, that there was maybe still a chance. She stared at his face, memorizing every blemish, every pore, every stain, every scar, every crimped eyelash, every imperfection; she begged for a twitch, but to no avail, his face remained still as ever.
She realized that she was inches from his face now, his frozen hand still clasped within hers. She looked down at it, at the blood that had settled between his nails, at the cracks in the skin, and she kissed each one.
Hot tears raced down her cheeks and off her chin. She let one hand move to the other side of his head, and, full-out sobbing now, kissed his forehead.
“Please wake up… I need you to wake up…”
Still holding his hand, she dropped her head to his chest, bawling like a small child.
“Please… please…”
This wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. Why did this sort of thing happen? Why was her boyfriend killed, murdered so wretchedly that no one could even figure out a reasoning or motive behind it? Why now, was his brother, her brother, for all intents and purposes – why was he about to go as well? What happened in that house, what caused the amount of stress that one boy would be killed trying to run away, and the other have an aneurism and attempt suicide? Where did justice come to play in all this? Where did God stand? Where did human decency stand?
She wasn’t sure how she had made it down to the cafeteria, nor how long she’d been here for. But in front of her sat a half-eaten bowl of her favorite, stale cereal, and her body felt exhausted and frailer than she ever imagined it could be. It took her what felt like hours to stumble out of the cafeteria, the hospital, and eventually finding her car.
She rested her head on the steering wheel for a few minutes, then put her keys in, and drove back home.