"It is unlikely that she will make it through the night."
Endeavour Morse froze. "No," he desperately thought to himself, perched uncomfortably by her bedside in a too-hard chair. He glanced over at her; she was pale, sickly looking, completely unlike herself. Endeavour could hardly believe it was her, in all honesty. Auburn hair was plastered to the pillow, a sheen of sweat graced her forehead, her skin desaturated to grey.
She always seemed to possess a sense of energy and happiness, regardless of Endeavour and his frequently-changing moods, which travelled with her whenever she entered a room. She loved music, and the two of them would frequently sit and sing at the aged piano in their front room – Endeavour loved singing in a choir, but music made in grand abbeys and churches would never compare, in his opinion, to simple melodies played in his own front room. She was kind, too – never a harsh word to say about anyone (except for Cyril, perhaps). Endeavour truly was the apple of her eye, whatever his own opinion of himself was. Why, out of all of the cruel and heartless people in the world, did it have to be her?
A plethora of doctors had entered the room. They worked like a well-oiled machine; one doctor read the clipboard by her bed, the other taking her pulse (as if Endeavour had not had one hand on her wrist since he arrived). It was too impersonal – they could never comprehend the value of the life lying in front of them, could they? One of the doctors turned to Endeavour, surveying him as if he too was lying in a hospital bed.
He spoke those fateful words to him, surveying him again to gauge his reaction – this must be standard procedure to him. If years as a doctor left a man with this level of detachment, Endeavour was sure that he could never enter such a profession. His notoriously weak stomach would never be able to cope, anyway. Endeavour had an ominous feeling inside him (his intuition, she would always say if he asked her about it), causing his anxiety levels to gradually rise.
Unfortunately for him, and for her, one of his greatest fears was soon to materialise.
It all happened so fast. Out of everything he would remember from that day, the speed of events was always what came to mind first.
The doctors had been doing another check during the night – they began to yell to one another, instantly waking Endeavour (who was still seated beside her). Men ran in and out of the room, shouting frenzied orders at one another, whereas all Endeavour could do was sit in a state of shock by her bed. It took somebody yelling at him to move out of the way to snap him out of the spell. He refused, naturally; he couldn't leave her, not now. His grip on her wrist was constant, and he held onto it tightly. He could feel the steady ba-bum of her pulse fading, slowing, disappearing from her like steam from a kettle rising into the air.
The room became more frantic, more claustrophobic. Endeavour struggled to breathe as he willed his entire being for her to survive. Noise surrounded him, hands and arms and legs were slamming into him as the doctors did what they could for her.
But it wasn't enough; nothing could have ever been enough.
"We are truly sorry for your loss." Why did the voice seem so far away?
His kind, selfless, beautiful mother was dead. He couldn't think. He couldn't breathe. His entire world was crumbling at his feet. He couldn't bring himself to answer any of the doctors' incessant questions, their voices drowning in a sea of despair.
Sat in a cold, stuffy hospital room on a too-hard chair, with nobody left for him in this world, Endeavour Morse felt his heart shatter.