Author's Note: I have not abandoned my other story, I just got a plot bug and had to write it down. It's mostly an exercise in scenic writing, more focused on describing things, so there isn't very much dialogue, and it will just be a two-shot. Second person POV. Just a warning - there is some salty language in this story (I'm not a big swearer myself, but sometimes, you know, it's all you can say). Warning #2 - spoilers up through "Mulligan." Warning #3 - this is NOT a happy/fluffy/humorous story. There will be a major death. Just letting ya know. :/
Out of the Blue
The fight is stupid – you know it, and you suspect your brother does, too. You don't mean to say "I told you so" when speaking about your father, but then again, Evan should NOT have gone to Boris after he promised he wouldn't. Even though he says Boris came to him and not the other way around, you don't buy it. You make a point of saying that your patron deals with you, not Evan, and would never approach him for any reason. Words are hurled, accusations made, old grudges dredged up and things said about the "good brother" and the "bad brother," and once Evan storms out and you have time to cool down, you feel regret. Even more so after a quick phone call reveals that, indeed, Boris DID seek Evan out regarding their father – that Evan took pains to avoid Boris, even sprinting in the opposite direction to avoid breaking his promise to you. On that count, at least, you know you owe your brother an apology. He needs to apologize for his words too, but you need to be the one to initiate it because you were the most in the wrong.
You know Evan has gone down to the beach to walk off his anger. The stretch of sand is deserted as thick, smoke-black storm clouds begin to roll in towards land. He is easy to spot in his brilliant blue shirt – he stands out against the slate grey of the water and growing darkness of the sky. Always so colorful... so bright... You see him out there, watching those clouds contemplatively, looking tense and defeated. And you walk toward him, rehearsing your apology in your mind, hoping Evan won't let his stubbornness get in the way of a civil conversation to work this whole thing out. The encroaching weather has caused the waves to swell higher than normal. Thunder rolls over your heads loudly, and the wind begins to pick up – it's going to be a nasty storm, the first big one of the summer, but maybe it will wash everything that was said away. You pause about 150 feet away to call his name, and he turns his head to you, appearing to be shocked to see you standing there. You shrug in an apologetic and embarrassed manner, and continue marching through the sand toward him. "Can we go inside before we get soaked?" you call casually, about 100 feet away. He gives a whisper of a smile, and for a moment you think the fence will be easy to mend after all.
The flash is so bright, you are momentarily blinded, and the cracking noise is startling, followed immediately by the smell of ozone. You're not totally sure what just happened. Once your eyes adjust post-flash, you see your brother splayed on the ground, flat on his back. Confused as to how and why he fell, your eye is suddenly drawn to Evan's foot… his right shoe, specifically. It looks like the sole has been blown off, leaving a large hole at his heel… broken, tattered, singed…
Shit.
Shit.
You dash towards Evan and see him lying there, the blue eyes half-open, fixed, glassy, staring at nothing. You know instantly just by looking at him: he's dead… your brother is dead… he's not breathing…
Your body starts acting on its own, doing all the things it's supposed to be doing, actions you've done so often they're ingrained into your muscle memory – the hands feel for a pulse and, finding none in either the carotid or the radial arteries, forcefully begin pushing on his chest to coax the heart back to life. The hands pause only a moment, in order for one to slide beneath Evan's neck and carefully tilt his head, taking note of the trickle of blood quietly beginning to seep from his ear, and the other to pinch his nose as the lips cover his mouth and the lungs exhale as much air as possible into his. Then the hands flutter back to their position on his chest, and the process repeats.
Meanwhile your thoughts are the height of panic and hysteria – He's dead… 300 kilovolts and he's dead… shit… my brother just died in front of me… why wasn't I hit?... God literally just smote my brother, "One will be taken and the other left"… shit, shit, shit, someone help me… I have to call an ambulance… can't stop resuscitation or he'll stay dead…. I'm all alone… he won't breathe… shit… Evan, come on, come back! Don't go like this – come back! Your eyes take in the rather raw-looking burn above his collarbone, just to the right of his neck. That's where it went in – through there and out his foot, dissipating in the sand. The observation of the sand triggers another reflex, and as the hands move to repeat the respiration component, the fingers quickly wander up to his empty, lackluster blue eyes, shutting the lids as protection from stray granules of sand, which might scratch his vulnerable corneas. It's a preventive measure, but it's also a psychological gesture on your part – you can't function in Evan's best interests while those lifeless eyes are watching you. It's too much pressure.
You don't know how long you spend doing CPR – it feels like hours, though in reality it is perhaps only about 30 or 45 seconds or so – but you are inwardly screaming the entire time, your psyche completely detached from your physical actions, which are efficient, quick, and precise. You aren't usually so panicked with patients. Then again, it isn't often you have to wrestle your own family back from death after being arbitrarily electrocuted from on high. You only stop once, when your eye catches sight of another bolt of lightning, this one over the water some distance away, but you still cry out and protectively cover your brother and your own head. You count the appropriate number of seconds until you hear the thunder (though you can't really remember if the lightning or the thunder comes first), and you quickly resume resuscitation, feeling like a sitting duck. When you feel Evan's body jerk beneath your hands, those briefly dormant lungs suddenly filling up of their own accord and the gasp that occurs simultaneously, you shout, "Evan? Evan!" praying that the breathing doesn't stop. As the initial gasping diminishes and a shaky, wheezing rhythm develops, you lean down and use your hands to immobilize your brother's head and neck. "Evan? You with me? Evan, talk to me!"
Evan's eyelids flicker a little, showing only the whites of his eyes beneath erratically fluttering lashes, then they fall closed again. Some sort of barely audible, incomprehensible groan comes out of his mouth. "What?" you sputter, not sure if this is involuntary and pain-related or a genuine attempt at speech. "Evan, talk to me if you can. What did you say? Can you hear me?" This time there is no response at all. Though he is still breathing, he is not conscious. You whip out your phone. You know you should've done this sooner, but you didn't have time to multitask – you were too desperate to resuscitate your little brother.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"I need an ambulance – my brother just got hit by lightning!"
It sounds so improbable that you half wonder if the operator will believe you. But she must recognize the genuine hysteria in your voice because she continues speaking to you, soothingly, calmingly, as you babble out the details of the sky's vicious, unprovoked attack. The ambulance is dispatched, but now you must wait. Wait and watch to ensure your brother doesn't try to die again. As the first giant raindrops begin to fall, you feel horribly exposed out here in the open, where that big bad sky could attack again. But you can't in good conscience move Evan – the nearest structure is a ways off, and you don't have a stretcher or a backboard to put him on. You can't take the risk of carrying him, just in case he has a spinal cord injury from the fall. Instead, you cradle him as carefully as you can, shielding him with your windbreaker while the rain soaks you, and you just pray the adage about 'lightning never striking twice' is true. Each time the thunder rumbles, you flinch, but you do your best to avoid looking up. If it IS going to happen to you, you would rather not know it was coming -you cannot neglect what Evan needs right now just because you're waiting to be struck.
The fingers continue to monitor his erratic pulse, and you dimly hypothesize that he's suffering from an arrhythmia. Aside from the entry and exit point burns, the only other outward physical sign of injury is the blood from his ear, which possibly indicates a ruptured tympanic membrane. You see the ambulance lights, and know that in mere seconds, paramedics will join you and take him out of your arms to assess his condition before whisking him to the emergency room. In your last private moment with him, you lean down and murmur over him, hoping at least one ear will catch your words, "It's going to be okay, Evan. I'm here, I won't let you go."
Stay tuned for part 2 (the conclusion)...