Word count: 1323

Written for:

Mystery Competition - Perplexing Myc, you will be writing Neville Longbottom as your main character in a story with your genres as tragedy or humour or both. Extra word used is 'perilous.' Genre chosen is tragedy.

Bad Movie Tuesdays - [object] Lift/Elevator, [dialogue] "Who the hell are you?", [plot device] Character death

Five Stages of Grief

The moment after, I realize that the world doesn't slow down in times of trouble. The world doesn't move slowly as you watch the flames consume your house, or see a building crumble to the ground from within. It stays the same, and that's the terrifying part - the helplessness of watching time slip by when you can do nothing.

I wait with the phone smashed against my ear, hearing words from the speaker but hearing only a ringing sound. The woman is so reassuring, so businesslike, but she isn't speaking quickly enough. I watch my Gran lie in her bed, her eyes shut, and I pray for the universe to hurry things up.

I should have woken up faster. I should have called faster. I should have taken that medical class last year so I would know what to do.

There's nothing more I can do.

I wait with the phone to my ear and wait for the sound of sirens.

oOo

Panic sets in when I arrive at the hospital and fumble through the whole process of tracking Gran down. Of course the EMTs didn't tell me if she'd be in the critical care ward or the ER. I hardly know her name, let alone mine, so I stammer something about Gran before I realize her name is Louise. Louise. She's 87 years old and her name is Louise and she had a stroke, can you help me please?

I'm scrambling up a half flight of stairs to the elevator, where I push the button over and over. It taunts me by not responding to my touch.

When I was seven, I nearly drowned in the ocean. It was March and Gran and I went to the seaside for a day. I stared up at the sky, in awe of the swirling clouds and complete view in all directions. The heavens stretched on for ever and ever.

"How cold is the water, Gran?"

"Neville, dear, you can't swim, now come back out before you catch cold."

"It isn't nearly as cold as your baths, Gran."

"Ha ha, now come back out here. I'm not diving in to catch you if-"

I couldn't swim, and I still can't, but I remember gulping up water like air, and crying new salt into the waves. The memory's gone flat, as if it was someone else's dream that I'm watching on a screen. The drowning feeling certainly couldn't be as bad as the agony of waiting in an elevator for the floor number to appear.

DING!

I've got to find the door number 312, but I'm all turned around, and somehow the lights have dimmed, casting shadows on every door.

I find the door out of sheer luck. If she's not there yet, I'll go mad.

oOo

The third feeling is anger. It comes much more simply than the others and without much fuss, because I'm too furious to notice my surroundings other than the man standing alone in Gran's room, taking notes in a chair beside Gran's bed...

"Who the hell are you?" I say, making a fist that can't do much but put pressure on my skin. He looks up calmly.

"I'm Mike, a general practitioner who's doing some extra nursing hours as a favor. Got anybody you're looking for, sir?"

Maybe if I was younger I would threaten him, but I know he's my only chance so I hold in a scream to ask where Gran is, and what's wrong, and when I can see her.

"Gran?" He checks the charts on his clipboard. "Sorry, have you got a name for me?"

"Louise Longbottom," I force out. Maybe if I say her name, she'll stay. "Louise Longbottom, have you got that?"

"Is that your family name too?" he asks, putting a finger to his lip in amusement.

"Shut up and give me the information or I swear I'll get you fired." I basically snarl, and the man visibly jumps.

"Sorry, sir, that was insensitive - can you tell me anything else about this Gran? I don't seem to have anything on file..."

I leave silently, slamming the door. I can feel a blush forming on my cheeks, but it's out of heat and anger if anything.

I'll try the lobby again.

oOo

I don't cry much these days, even though I was the biggest crybaby as a kid. It's as if everything switches when you grow and suddenly the sun is dark and the sky is down. Everything you used to think turns into something new until you hardly know who you used to be. I'm still Neville, but I'm not the stupid little kid with the toad in primary school. Trevor died five years ago, and honestly, if I still had him, he'd be back at the pet shop for some new kid to buy.

The last time I cried was when Mum died. Dad's got early onset Alseimer's, so he's barely a part of my life, but I always felt Mum was there in the background of my world no matter what. Then she just died, and it was me and Gran. The memories of her and Gran mix in my head, but I haven't forgotten her. She's just slipped away.

I'm twenty-six. I shouldn't cry. I know it's awful logic to say that age defines emotion, but it's what keeps the tears in my eyes instead of down my shirt as I walk the down the stairs. (I decide it would be quicker than more waiting.) It's a perilous journey as white-suited doctors pass me, occasionally paired with a patient or visitor. No one is as alone as I am now.

Some time later I reach the emergency waiting area, and by some stroke of luck that I'll never have again, I get news of Gran. She was sent to a room recently, only a few corridors down. It must mean she's in stable condition.

I don't think I'm meant to be in this hallway, but no one stops me as I look for the right room. I finally reach the door, and turn it without hesitation.

I need to see Gran.

oOo

She's got white hair, my Gran does, and the brightest eyes you've ever seen in an old person. It's unbelievable. She'd be perfect for one of those health insurance ads where they show old people fishing and playing shuffleboard and crap like that.

I was going to move out soon, try to get an apartment with a roommate, but I was so used to living with Gran that I never picked out a place. She's old, sure, and a little bit crazy, but she was there for me all these years. I love her to death.

When I see her limp mouth failing to form a grin, or a grimace, or a pucker - that's when I know. Gran's expressions define her so well that you could read her dreams through her sleeping face.

I think Gran's gone.

There are people swarming around me, and I think they want to do more tests and make sure she's dead, but I know that the way she's laid on her side is wrong. Gran sleeps on her back, always. We had sleepovers when Mum and Dad went out for the night. I haven't thought about that for years.

I reach out to touch her. I can't tell what I'm doing - I could be crying, screaming, laughing insanely, but it doesn't matter, not when Gran is dead and I'm standing here waiting for her to get up.

She's not going to get up. She's not. Gran.

I see her age reflected on her face like I never have before. Gran is an old woman - Gran was an old woman - I can't finish the thought. I never thought she would be gone. It's too much to handle and I can't see anymore.

They carry me out, I think.

I'm too busy crying myself to unconsciousness to notice.