Title – A Missing Poem: ABP Sequel

Poem Piece – Tell me everything is fine. Lies are always better than truth.

Okay, italics is the past. Regular, is present.
One. She interlocks her fingers.

This will break her heart, or it will save her. She doesn't know if it even matters. As she sits down, her legs almost trembling from over two hours of pacing and walking, her head falls into her hands. Fatigue is welcome, it's even wanted, but if she gives in, how will she look at herself if imagination turns into reality?

The fifty-second whish of the cane through stale hospital air is enough to snap whatever patience she has. As she continues with her pacing to where he sits in one of the waiting chairs, her first thought is to physically throw him out of the waiting room. Her second thought is to sit at his feet with her head cradled over his lap and his hands gently brushing her hair. She doesn't realize the third choice until she's finally done it. His cane is in her grasp before she realizes it.

Two. She leans her elbows on her knees.

He watches her rest her chin on his cane just like he's done so many times before. She's watching the double doors, waiting for the doctors to come out and give her meaningless news. He's waiting too. Waiting for inevitability. He's waiting to be wrong, except he knows he's not.

The woman and child come into the room, the woman running and nearly dragging the dark haired girl behind her. Her mascara is running, her blonde hair in tangles and clumps, and her face is wrought with fear. The four year old girl tries to catch her breath as her mother lets her hand go. As she stares at her sister-in-law, Cameron's strength finally comes undone. When her niece comes to her, there's nothing left to do but to reach out her arms to find some comfort she can't feel.

Three. She looks at the television set.

Hours go by on the small clock located on the nearly bare wall. Her no longer cane-less man is gone to work on a case, and she holds what very well may be the last of her brother, in her arms. The girl doesn't say a word, even to ask where her mother, Marly, has disappeared to. It's only them two in this seemingly empty, small space. Her eyes close, her beating heart matches that of Isabelle's heart. Through all the chaos, both of them, alone with their own befuddled thoughts, are more at peace than ever.

Four. She can smell the soft scent of the sofa.

Several employees of the hospital come to offer their sincerest apologies, trying smiles, and even earnest platitudes meant to soothe. Her mouth always moves to say 'Thank you,' but she'll never remember it after tonight. The doors she's been staring at for so long finally open in what is more anticlimactic than her first kiss.

Marly stands first, her hand clutching her throat and eyes already watering. But Cameron can't stand at all. Words enter her ears, register in her brain, and she completely understands. Which doesn't mean she accepts it. Her sister-in-law brings a hand to her mouth, her silent breakdown almost as audible as a whistling firecracker. Little girl Isabelle looks to her mother clinging to the doctor in the blood covered gown, and then to her aunt losing her hold on everything solid.

He's missing his big spoon, and that would be her. Limping into the living room, giving up trying to sleep without her pressed against his backside, he finds the darkness more dark than dark had ever been to him. He stops, not sure if she's even in the room because the silence is so calm and placid.

Five. She forgets to listen.

If only she could block out the sound of Marly's sobs coming from that room, she might almost be fine. Her brother is in ICU, broken and battered, living only because the machine forces needed air into his beaten lungs. This is what it's come down to for them: A small room, blinds down, a beeping monitor, and a hysterical woman saying goodbye to one man and his life. Carefully, through blurry tired eyes, she looks to the wall, reading the clock. Thirty two minutes since Marly walked into her husband's room, not ready to let go.

Isabelle Daniels tugs her hand and she's forced to look into blue green eyes so much like her own, so much like her brother's. The Daniels' eyes they all had. Eyes she never wants to see again.

Only because his eyes have adjusted to the dark, does he see her sitting on the sofa, staring into the television set with something he'd define as determination. Her long hair, braided simply down her small back, starkly contrasts between her white sleep shirt and shorts. If she wasn't a praying person, he'd swear she is.

Six. She closes her eyes.

She stands in the doorway, her hands bracing herself on the doorframe. She looks as if she's run down the entire hospital to get to this place. Her hair is plastered to her face, chest rising and lowering rapidly with shallow breaths, body slouching from too much exertion and discipline. He's sleeping on his bed, and maybe it's why she can't force herself into his space. Maybe it makes it less real if she stays just out of his reach. Her left hand begins to drift down the frame slowly, losing tension with the wood and finally coming down to her side with nothing but a sigh of despair.

She should have heard his heavy footsteps before now. The fact that she hasn't, is enough to make him stop where he is. He can limp to her, ask her to come back to bed, let her hold him, and then fall asleep. He could. For a split second his leg jerks in a reflexive movement to step forward, but before he can go through with the action, she closes her eyes. She hasn't cried yet. She isn't crying tonight, but she also doesn't ask for him either. Another minute passes before he turns away to their room, waiting for her to stop him, but he makes it to their bed without a whisper from her.

Seven. She breathes.

Well, first off, the whole poem is now in the first chap. I'll let you guys speculate as to what might happen. Anyways, sorry for the wait. Hope you like. Muchas gracias, mi amigos y amigas.

-Wait, before I quit lol. Some readers would like me to explain the difference bw "real" love and "true" love. Here's why I think they're different. True love is often romanticised. I think of true love and think of romance novels and movies, which while I like, aren't very compatible in the real world. The real world isn't like a movie/book with happy endings and love that just beams out of every orifice. True love is a fairytale where it never goes bad. Real love however, is something I can identify more with. It's not smiles and happy times, it's mingled with pain and regret, fear and loneliness, and even hurt.

True love is like an ornament you keep on the shelf so it's never broken and stays clean. Real love is the rag doll you carry around even though it's dirty and nearly tore up. I don't know if that helps or if anyone even wants to read this mess, but lol, there it is. Sorry if I can't explain it that well.