A/N: This story has two authors, ikilledkennyandjr and GrayLizardScorpio. We've joined forces to write a story from Sharon Cherski's point of view. Please read and leave your thoughts. We are anxious to see what you think!

Point of View: Sharon Cherski

Rating: Teen For mature emotional themes

Genre: Drama/Tragedy

AS HARD AS IT HURTS

CHAPTER 1: "So Sudden, It's Like Life"

Hospitals are so. Weird. They're like, like graveyards, practically. People only ever go there to die. And yes, I know, I know I'm being pessimistic, but if your father was about to die, you wouldn't exactly be doing the Cha-Cha either.

"Come on, what are you waiting for?" Rayanne Graff yells at me. I just stand there--I'm like one of those angels above a tombstone that never moves. So she takes my arm and squeezes it with her tiny fingers and drags me through the door. I cringe, wary of the touch.

That Rickie guy sits on a bench and leans his head back, closing his eyes. There's a mark on his face I never noticed--probably just a shadow. "I'm not going in," he breathes. Rayanne nods. Luck-y. The turnstile threatens to crush the two of us, but we're in, and we're alive.

"Okay, which floor is the dude on?" Dude?

I shake my head. "Three. And, ugh, let go of my arm, you're like practically bruising me."

"Sorry." She sheepishly gives me back my circulation. My arm is cold without human contact. I almost want to tell her to hold it again. She speeds up. "I hate these places. Dunno how my mom works here."

"Your mom works here?"

"Yeah. She's an x-ray technician."

"What about your dad?"

She shrugs, heavy purse nearly toppling to the linoleum. "Long gone."

"I-is he--"

"Moved out." She slaps the elevator button once, twice, three times. Geez. It opens its door like a monster's mouth chomping on two little girls.

I look at the buttons on the way up.

I can't step out of it when it opens up again. The hallway is barren, with only a secretary reading People magazine. I barely make out Brad Pitt on the cover. I can't look at him and I can't look at Rayanne Graff.

"It's cool, Cherski. Let's go." My fingers clench and unclench. She grunts and takes them in her own, quickly, while I'm blinking. I'm halfway between laughter and tears.

Again she forces me down the passage, thankfully with a lack of gentleness. I hear her mutter, "What's your problem, anyway? Your dad's still stickin' around." We see Mom, and surprisingly I can look at her. I feel Rayanne watching me for half a second before she drops my hand. God, everything she does is so sudden. It's like... life.

My feet carry me the rest of the way. Mom doesn't notice me, even when I'm breathing on her and holding my arms out. She holds hers around her body. Her blonde hair shivers. I get my hair from Dad.

Through the window of Dad's room, I see a nurse changing the sheets. Dim moans from the other rooms are like, all around me. Coughs. Hacks.

"The surgery... it's..." Mom says. No, it's not Mom. This is not where I am, this is not us. Dad's at work. If we just go home, he'll meet us there. He'll meet us there and hug me, help me with my math homework. We'll eat dinner.

Everything shatters with three more words.

"I'm sorry, Sharon." Her voice shows no emotion. She stands there staring at the fresh linen where Dad used to lie.

I don't know how I get back down to the lobby and out the doors. But I'm out there, and I'm rubbing my face. I can't... this can't... I take my hands away for a minute and see Rickie Vasquez lying on the bench, arm dangled over the side.

His face is definitely scarred.

Against my own will I end up at the Chases' house.

I walk into the living room as Danielle and Angela are wrestling and giggling on the sofa. Without enough time to wipe the smile from her face Angela looks over her shoulder at me. "How was the hospital?"

I don't even look at her. She doesn't know the news. How funny. My father has become news in a matter of seconds. And anyways my lips are frozen. I cannot form the words to tell her. I just run upstairs to escape that question. When I get to the top of the stairs, I instinctively barrel into Angela's room and hurl myself at the bed. This perpetual gloom seems to be stalking me. Even in one of my favorite childhood places, Angela's bedroom, I can't shake the foreboding feeling gnawing at my insides.

I think maybe I should be crying, but I can't. Then I know why I cannot cry. I cannot cry because it's not real. Daddy is going to ring the doorbell any minute and pick me up. And at home, Mom is already cooking his favorite meal-- steak, extra-rare, with baked potatoes. I close my eyes and try hard to smell him and see him.

"Sharon?" Angela is calling my name. For a moment I forget where I am.

"Chase-face?"

"Um…yeah. Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you, but did you want dinner?"

What does food have to do with anything? "No..." I shake my head weakly, and my stomach rumbles.

"Okay. Are you all--never mind. I'll go." Her door squeaks shut.

I don't dream.

"So... so just like that? On the like, operating table? But... but how could he--"

"I don't know."

I open my eyes and look toward the door. They don't notice me. Graham places a hand on Angela's shoulder. Everything stops except for the sound of the furnace.

"Where's Mom?" she whispers after a while.

"Still asleep. I don't think she's going in today."

"Oh. Right. So. So Sharon is--"

"Don't worry. Your mom will take care of her. I better get ready." He pats her shoulder and wanders off. "I can't stay here..."

For a second she stays there, looking at me. Then she turns to where Graham is heading. I hear him shuffling over the floor, and her yelling, "Dad. Dad!" His shuffles quicken and he reaches the archway again, looking down at his daughter. She sighs up at him, and rubs her forehead. "So he--" She takes her hand away, drops it to her side, and I watch it dangle. "He died?" Her gaze swivels back to me in these tiny increments, giving me enough time to half-close my eyes and settle into the blankets again.

Graham wraps his arms around her, and she leans her head into his chest, still watching me. He kisses the top of her head. "Come on, honeybunch," he says, the sound coming from deep in his throat, "I'll make you breakfast."

I can't keep looking. I like, physically can't. In my cocoon of blankets, I wonder who died.