Originally, I planned for Corroded Dreams to stand alone. I did not think I would ever want to add anything to the subject matter. The story was an emotion dump for me because I was mourning. It was nice and angsty, and perfectly descriptive of myself. However, I was thinking and I felt my throat tighten. I had avoided writing anything relating to Corroded Dreams for a few reasons, mainly because it hit home too hard. Anyway, I brushed my issues aside and wrote this.
This takes place before Corroded Dreams, which is why I created it as its own shot. My style is odd here; I do not know why I started writing in this manner. I have never written a fan fiction that was not in past tense. The content is littered with pronouns, but the story did not sound right if there were names included. There are also a lot of contractions, she's, she'll, he's it's, but I didn't want to change the body. Here is a forewarning though; this story is pretty raw…which is why the author's note is so long. It needed to be explained.
Disclaimer: I do not own Gilmore Girls, and I'm sure quite a few fluff fans are glad I don't.
The doctors don't want to tell him she's dying. Even if they said anything, Jess wouldn't want to hear it. Last week, she was fine. This week, the doctors hesitate as they pass by him.
It's his fault she's dying. He shouldn't blame himself, but he does. He sits by her bed at night and writes. Sometimes it's malleable, other times it's simply to her. Either way, he's with her. They've tried to keep him away after visiting hours, but he keeps returning. He has nothing better to do. Sometimes, he hopes for sleep. Sleep usually never comes. He's lucky insomnia plagues him most nights. No matter how much he needs the sleep, he denies it. If he were to sleep, he would probably see her fall and hear her scream. The city lights outside shine, which is expected in New York. The city is almost dead, but he can't fall asleep. He doesn't want to dream. Dreaming to Jess means he would have to wake up. After arousing, he will remember the hell he's in. He'll want to go back to sleep after realizing it. No matter how much he would prefer to be locked in a dream, he would rather be here for her.
He wonders if she dreams. Perhaps she's happier in the dead of night when she can reflect on blissful thoughts. Tonight, he refuses sleep. Instead, he stares at her.
She's beautiful still, although her body appears flaccid as she "sleeps." That's what he calls it. That's what he believes it is. He doesn't want to think of it as a coma. They tell him it's a coma. They say she'll never wake up. He tries to convince himself that she's sleeping. But she's not sleeping.
She's dying, and it pains him to remember that. Every night that he sits by her bed, he attempts to convince himself that she's asleep. Perhaps if he is convinced, she will be as well. Then she'll wake up. He can forget she was ever hit by that bus. For now, he sits and writes. It's all he ever has enough drive to do.
At six-thirty in the morning, his internal clock tells him to wake her for work. His heart skips a beat before he realizes what is happening. Even though it happens every morning, he never seems to remember.
He's losing his mind along with his wife, though it's possible he lost both long before.
After the sun sets and most of the population return home to a hot meal, he unwraps a candy bar and picks up a pen. The candy bar will last him all night, but the pen is almost out of ink.
It was a present from her. She decided he needed a fancy pen to sign the pages of his first novel. He never thought it possible to love an object so much, but he does. He loves the pen more than anything and, somehow, it will not be the same with a different ink barrel in it. He decides to preserve the ink and tucks the pen safely away in his pocket.
Lately, he has been craving coffee. Whenever he has the urge to smoke, he drinks coffee. It's bitter, and tonight it bites at his throat. Sometimes, he wishes to down alcohol. Vodka, gin, and whiskey would keep his mind off her. However hard it may be, he resists more often than he indulges. The tickle at the base of his throat can only be cleared with a shot of tequila. After all, she's numb too. He deserves to forget. And sometimes he does. After a few shots of tequila, he forgets their argument.
He forgets she packed a bag and screamed at him.
He forgets that when she stepped off the curb, she tripped.
He forgets the agonized look on the driver's face as he dials 9-1-1.
He forgets she's not at home when he stumbles in, piss drunk and ready to black out.
But when he wakes up and remembers, he wishes he could forget again.
Smoking a cigarette usually makes him feel better, but not today. Unless it concerns her, it is barely worth doing. She never supported his habit, so he quit. He smokes now because she can't see him.
She can't hear him.
She can't smell the cologne she gave him for Christmas, even though he wears it everyday for her.
She doesn't know he's even sitting by her bed late at night.
She doesn't know that he reads to her, Ayn Rand usually, just to get closer to her. He would never read her Hemingway, but she doesn't know that either.
Instead, she lies in her bed as a vegetable. It's a coma, they say, but he likes to think she's sleeping.