This is for Sushigirl10, a true star in the making of whom has made me feel encouraged and inspired. I've really busted butt with many things lately, and I am rarely updating any stories. But I am now pushing my personal goals, me time, and even disorder habits for this story - because this was definitely worth my hours.
Keep hope and support her, as she will be recovering from a procedure that may enhance her ability to walk. She is slowly working to beat hemiplegia, and she is not afraid of failure. She inspires me.
If she doesn't mind, I have this to say. When I first met her, I saw her profile. The thing that really stuck out was "...I wouldn't be able to be a Cheerio because of my disabilities..." But I didn't weep, because she doesn't need to be a Cheerio. Going to her own ability and being herself is all she needs to impress me.
Stay strong, sister. We all love you.
Sam watched as his friend, Sorcha placed a small hand on his broad shoulder. She was about to reveal her opinions of him, but as always she had been timid and too hesitant. Ensuing from her personally denied dare, she then let agreed to simply let out a cracked sigh of, "Your abs are amazing." She could never tell him how much she endeared him.
"I know, Sorcha," Sam breathed, chuckling. "I get that a lot."
She grasped his romantically calloused hand and tenderly stroked before he pulled it away. She found the hand once again and began connecting his fingers between hers. She excused her inappropriate and maybe even undesired behavior with, "You need a break from the guitar. Or, at least some lotion." But what she was truly trying to express was, "I really love you, Sam."
She bluffed, stating that her warm grasp would help callouses. Now she could hold on for a longer while.
It was probably just her imagination, but Sorcha felt his voice whisper, very sweetly whisper, "I love you." Whether it was reality or not, those words were like a fireplace to the soul. It took her to pure glee, the warmth and solace just letting her escape whatever bitter cold she'd faced previously.
And in her world, every second without him was like a snowstorm. However she couldn't describe the storm, being too occupied on that warmth and that comfort of Sam.
She loved him very deeply. Every second with him was a stunning heartbeat following another, which produced a marvelous rhythm that seemed to slowly echo, "Love never dies." She could hear it, and he probably could as well. But, she persistently demanded to know, did he even care at all?
He was certainly sweet, empathetic, inspiring and every little quality of a dear - although there could be more. But why was the word "more" even available for use? Of course he was concerned for her well being, as friends would do, but was it possible for him to possess greater passion? Did he love her? Could he love her? And the biggest wonder, would he love her?
Sam ruptured her inquiring, well, not that it upset her or anything. He remarked, "Hey, we should get to the auditorium. You seemed pretty lost in the choreography during Glee practice so I was thinking, maybe, I could assist. How 'bout it?"
She giggled at his tone. "'Bout it" was petty sexy anyone could likely agree. Of course she would very much enjoy dancing along to Sam, the bright stage lights out to make his eyes gleam and his perspiring skin glisten.
Sam was the most wonderful, highly graceful, and ever so gentle - and his greatness seemed to increase consistently. He was so soft in his voice, his soul - and that put Sorcha at peace with herself for at least a moment. He was easy on the senses, however he was rock solid when he hit her heart. But hey, who ever said it was a bad thing?
The best pieces of Sam, the reason Sorcha loved him as truly as she did, was his spirit. He was the perfect apple of the eye, and apple of the mind especially. Plain innocence, encouragement, and confidence. He would never fail on what was right, even if he happened to soil what was his own dream.
The passion struck her heart. It nearly cracked her in half, or maybe into shards.
But stop. She considered that he possibly couldn't reciprocate. She let go of his hand.
"Is something wrong?" he mumbled, staring. He could tell she was concerned, and maybe even scared. Damn, why did she have to constrict him in such an awkward, heavy moment?
She replied, "Clammy hands. You shouldn't have to feel it."
As far as she knew, her hands weren't so sweaty or even the tiniest bit moist. But the lie was better than no legitimate answer at all.
Actually, she wasn't sure how to feel. She was worried, cracked, and qualified to grow gloomy any moment now. Did he love her?
He must love her, he really must. She wouldn't be able to stand it if he were to inform her that they were "just friends." This suspense was killing her, penetrating her skin and scraping deep into the bone and pumping vessels and soon making a way to the heart. The broken, crippled, crying heart.
In the auditorium, varying from her expectations, it had been pretty dark and shadowy though not as much as her spirit. Echos of hollowness and solitude unable to contrast from her soul. The auditorium, the location of passion and expression, happened to actually rip her apart.
He took her up to the railed balconies, where there would be no material posing as tripping hazard. Of course, she considered, he cared. But how much?
"Sorcha," Sam said very audibly, removing his jacket. "You ready? Get to your position, and..."
She gazed into him. She took a moment to read him like a poem, to attempt grasping his emotions and learning more of him than just his smile. She inquired, how did he view her? And more importantly, just how true was his grin?
"One, two, and a three..." Sam did a simple step, and increased speed and agility the further he went into the routine.
She was sure to follow along, still keeping focus on his passion. But now, she was in shards and could barely have contact with him any longer. It was an obvious and final conclusion that it had been impossible for him to love her. At this point, she was not capable to even sense his presence and accept it. She must go. "I got this, Sam." She leaned for her buttercream yellow bag and smoothed her matching, short chiffon skirt before going off.
She felt a strange pressure as she reached the end of the balcony and headed to the exit, however she just went on.
Within a split second, a tragedy not-so-easy to process had come her way. Swift, tricky, stunning force had pushed her forward and had about flipped her into an angle she'd never experienced before. She felt very, very light as the force shook her into great turmoil, her head spinning through heat and her entire body being sucked into a trauma. She had fallen from the balcony, and was violently hurling down until a critical fate would take course.
Sorcha thought she'd heard her name being called in terror, but it was blurred. What? It didn't matter; nothing mattered anymore. Everything was blurred - her visions, her emotions, her pain. She didn't need any of that right now.
It seemed to be the slowest few seconds of her life. The distress dragged on to what felt to be forever. This was it. This was how it would end. The end of her, the end of her passions, the end of finding Sam.
She flinched, and accepted this as the way it would be. She took a last breath, as this would be-
Slam.
Bright light surrounded her; she couldn't see them, but she could sense them. Rushing and resonant noises captivated her for a while. What was happening?
Through the ear-bursting sounds, she heard soothing assurances of "You're okay, it is all going to be fine."
Sorcha could feel herself being transferred multiple times, but it happened all so fast. To where, and when, and how, and why?
She fluttered her eyes, struggling to keep them open. The world was colorless, shapeless, deprived of definition. All gone, all over.
She sighed as she was finally left to relax. She was lying still, somewhat comfortably, now surrounded in five cords - or six maybe - and bundled in quite thick blankets. She was in a hospital room, she determined, but wasn't sure whether she desired to be there or not.
Had it been five minutes later, or probably even thirty minutes later, when she heard the door open slowly. "Sorcha?" said the person, hesitant and with a gulp.
Not another doctor. She begged, just let it all go. She was not prepared to live after the highly supposed but failed exit. And besides, was it possible for her to recover and begin again with the impacting traumatic scars tormenting her mind?
"Sorcha, honey, I'm sorry this happened."
Sam. He'd come to rescue her from the pain. Even if it were temporary, he was still a lovely distraction from the suffering.
"We shouldn't have went onto the balcony and I should have paid closer attention to you. This is my fault."
"No, Sam," she debated, disrupting every few words to take a lung full of air. "It's not... your fault. It's... no... one's fault."
She could just sense, feel him kneel down beside her bed. Though she could not catch a visual version of him, she was aware of how beautiful he must have been and how symbolic the callouses and batters of his hand had been. She was mostly still there.
Sorcha then remembered the powerful, crippling emotion of before. How she felt for him was not just a memory, but has still been an aspiration. To this moment, she heavily loved Sam Evans. He was worth more than anything, even more than her dear life.
"Well, I hurried here to check up on you. You know I care a lot about you. You're my family."
Again, the question. How much?
But she stayed silent, hoping for him to maybe leave. She was getting horribly uncomfortable, as she knew that he didn't love her. She would just die and dream of him on the higher ground, and just freeze in happy hopes.
She dropped, feeling deader and sicker than ever. She groaned. It was over now. Before her ear grew blurry, she could hear the drastic and fatal screeching of a monitor. Her heart would give out anytime now.
Sorcha let out her deep breath, and she swore she could feel soft, warm, tender, loving lips just barely touching hers.