Hershel woke up to a spinning head and a white ceiling. How odd. His room didn't have a white ceiling.
He tried to move his body, but found it simply hurt too much to do so. There was faint beeping, and Hershel couldn't understand where it was coming from. His mother was sleeping in a chair next to his bed.
"Ma…?" He winced. His throat hurt, too. Why did everything hurt? Lucille came awake with a jolt, her eyes wide before she looked her son over.
"Hershel? Honey, are you awake?" Her worried, scared voice set Hershel off like nothing else. Why did this all feel wrong?
Wait. Randall falling, Angela yelling at him. It all came to him in a tidal wave. How he had slit his own throat in the tub.
How he wished he was dead. Hershel let out a sob. He understood now where he was. He was in the hospital. It hurt to move because he lost a lot of blood. It hurt to speak because of the wound he had made on his neck. Lucille jumped to her feet, grasping one of her son's hand in hers.
"Hershel… shhh. I'll go get a nurse, okay?"
"Why?!" Hershel sobbed out; his throat burned. "Why did you keep me alive?!" Lucille looked deeply into Hershel's eyes.
"Hershel, please… honey… I understand you're upset right now, but --"
"You don't understand, Ma!" Hershel clenched his eyes shut. "I don't deserve to live, I caused R --" His words got stuck in his throat, and his eyes shot open. Lucille was beginning to cry, her tears landing on his hand. "...Ma, please… just… you don't need to worry about me."
"Hershel." Lucille's voice was shaky. "Please don't say that… of course I worry about you." Hershel frowned, then pulled his hand away and looked over to the side, a shaky, strangled sob slipping past his lips.
"How can you?" Hershel's voice was broken. "How -- how can you…?"
"Hershel, honey…."
"I don't understand how you have ever cared for me. I'm nothing but a failure…. Always a failure. That's all I am."
"Stop."
"I've always thought that you've never really cared about me." Hershel didn't understand why he was telling his mother all of this now, but the words poured out of him. "I don't know why, but I've always thought that. I -- I can't -- I can't understand."
"Hershel, stop --"
"Ma, please --"
"No!" Hershel's eyes grew wide. Lucille sounded absolutely broken. "Hershel, stop it. Please." He went silent, his shaky breaths as he sobbed silently the only noises in the hospital room. Lucille continued after a moment. "We care about you, dear. We care about you so much." Her hand grasped at one of his again. "...You cared about Randall, didn't you?"
Hershel nodded after a moment. Of course he did. Randall was the reason he had opened up so much, out of his reclusive shell as a child. How could he not care about him? Lucille sighed.
"Hershel, Angela has been wanting to see you --" Hershel's stomach dropped.
"No. Don't let her in, please."
"She wants to apologize, Hershel. She was horrified when your father told her."
"N -- No, n-no, I don't… I don't deserve her pity --"
"Henry and Alphonse have been asking about you as well." Lucille smiled weakly. "I think it would help you if they came and talked to you."
"You don't --" There was a knock on the door. Hershel went silent when Lucille stood to open it.
"Is he awake?" His father's voice.
"Yes." His mother's voice was shaky.
"Son?" Hershel didn't answer. "Son, your friends are here to see you." The boy began trembling.
"Let them in," Lucille said. Hershel closed his eyes, his breathing and heartbeat beginning to increase when footsteps approached the bed.
"Hershel?" Please, God, this can't be happening. He remained silent still. Angela spoke again, her voice trembling. "Hershel, I'm… I'm sorry, I…." She was silent for a long moment. "I'm sorry, I… I can't be responsible for a suicide, so… I'm sorry."
"Miss Angela --!"
"Oi, Angela, you could be a bit nicer."
"What else am I supposed to say?" Angela's voice was trembling with emotions.
"'Hey, Hershel, I'm sorry for blaming you and making you feel bad enough to attempt suicide'?" Alphonse's voice was softer than it normally was. "Hey, Hershel, buddy, it ain't you fault, and it'll never be your fault, you hear me?"
"Master Hershel, I… I apologize, I should have tried a bit harder to stop Master Randall, as well. It was never your fault. You just wanted to make him happy, like we all did." Hershel was trembling again. He didn't want to look at any of them.
"Hey, Hershel, can you look at me?" Hershel couldn't bring himself to open his eyes. Angela's voice turned pleading. "Please, Hershel, open your eyes." He still couldn't. "Mrs Layton, what exactly did he do to himself?" Hershel froze; please, Ma, don't --
"He had cut his arms to the point where he will possibly suffer permanent nerve damage. His throat… he sliced it to where he won't be able to speak very well for a while." Hershel clenched his eyes shut tighter, tears slipping past.
"Oh, my gosh." Angela's voice trembled even more.
"He told me what you had told him." Lucille's voice was quiet. "You understand now that he was already feeling bad enough before he told you what had happened to Randall, don't you?" Silence. "He was upset, he wanted comfort, but instead he was yelled at, degraded to where he is now. He wanted nothing more than to bring Randall back, you hear me, young lady?"
"I… I-I… yes, ma'am. I'm sorry." More silence.
"Let's go, Angela." Footsteps as Angela and Alphonse left. Hershel finally found it in him to open his eyes, catching Angela's back as she left the room. Henry gazed at him.
"I apologize, Master Hershel, but I must go back." He stood. "I promise that you have done nothing to deserve what Angela thinks you do. Once you get out, I will be there to help you." He patted Hershel's arm gently before he left.
Hershel was exhausted. As he watched Henry go, his eyes drooped once more. He closed his eyes, falling asleep for real, this time. The chattering of his mother and father helped lull him further, into an uneasy sense of security. They were truly too kind to him.