Hey guys. This is a new fic based on the Better Than I Know Myself video with a bit of a sci-fi twist to it. Hope you like it. :)
[Prologue]
"Will he make it, do you think?" The voice is soft, hushed, fearful in the otherwise desolate silence of the room. A hulk of a man in a soft linen white coat holds a glass clipboard with a clear sheet held to its front, the text black and bold against its transparent support.
A moment is taken, whether to add tension or maybe the man isn't sure how to find his words. At any rate a long breath is expelled and he turns to the woman who spoke to him, a woman well into her years with soft brown hair. She's pretty, and he can see the obvious resembles between her and the individual lying in the bed, the individual in question.
"I don't know," he tells her, setting the clipboard down on the table at the foot of the bed. White walls surround them and an open glass window facing the west, letting in warm afternoon light. It casts a glow on the tall, broad shouldered man tucked under a cotton blanket. He takes a glance towards his patient, not wanting to meet the mother's eyes. "I honestly don't. His vitals are good. His brain activity is normal. He just… he won't wake up."
The mother glances towards her son, a young man of his late twenties, perhaps early thirties. He looks like he's fresh out of college, almost, with dark hair and pale skin. She knows if his eyes were open they'd be the most beautiful sparkling blue to ever grace the spectrum of color. "Is there anything we can do?" She asks. She's hopeful. She has to be. Her son has been like this for the last two weeks, for no reason at all. She just came home one day and found him on the floor, out cold and unresponsive.
The doctor is silent. He listens to her soft breathing and his own steady heartbeat, watching the boy with the same integrity that she is. They're both thinking the same thing, though he doesn't want to admit that to her. He wants to give her as much to hold onto as possible, but he's just not sure. The boy's case is something he's never seen, and when he looks up the mother, staring into her mismatched eyes, he frowns.
"Wait. See if he'll wake up."
Leila Lambert stares back at the doctor, staring between a blue eye and a green eye. Perhaps once, long ago, such a thing might have been strange. For people to have mismatched eyes. But it's not so anymore. Now, well, now there's a whole psychological reasoning behind it—truly. It's not chemical or hereditary. It's psychosis. It's, practically, soul related.
Turning her gaze from the doctor, she stares back at her eldest son. Her little angel, all grown up into a beautiful and lavish young man. A man with talent and promise, and he looks like he's merely sleeping in the bed, head tilted slightly to the left. Freckled lips and delicate almond shaped eyes with slight downward curves on the insides. Such a unique boy, and Leila allows a smile despite fearing that her son may never wake up, never recover.
But that's just it. What is there to recover from?
Slowly, Leila crosses to her son, holding her coat tight over her arm. She stands by the side of his bed, staring down on his pale face and her chest tightens with a sort of grief. He's not gone, for he's right in front of her and still very much alive. But she knows he's lost. And right now, he's not coming back.
Reaching out, she touches her boy's cheek with her finger tips, caressing his skin. A smile pulls at her lips again as she cups his face, tracing circles with her thumb. She holds her hand there, still and warm against his cheek before lifting it a little, pressing the pad of her thumb to the thin membrane of his left eyelid. Slowly, she eases it up, revealing his eye.
Whites. Pupils. And a ring. A simple ring where the iris should be. But there is no iris. Just a vague, translucent grey ring and white.