Gil and I sat with Sara for twenty seven long hours.
Twenty seven hours I sat holding her hand, talking to her, begging her to wake up.
Twenty seven hours of bargaining with God, making deals, promising to go to church every goddamn Sunday, if only Sara could open her eyes.
Twenty seven hours of watching Gil sitting there awkwardly, watching him not hold her hand, watching him not beg and plead and fall apart. How could he not be falling apart?
Twenty seven hours of looking at her injuries, trying not to cry over the stitches on her forehead, the deep black bruising around her eyes, and the seeming never ending assortment of blood red cuts on her hands on arms, caused by broken glass.
Twenty seven hours of trying not to imagine the injuries she had hidden beneath the starch hospital blankets.
It felt like a lifetime...
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Gil finally left to go find a hotel room for us, seemingly glad to have an excuse to leave. He said he had some calls to make, and things to sort out. I'm wondering if he plans to let Sara's family know what is going on, surely no-matter what sort of relationship they had, they would want to be here for her. I know families aren't always easy, but sometimes it takes something terrible to happen to bring everyone together.
I'm dragged away from my thoughts by a slight pressure on my hand, and a small whimper.
"Sara" I whisper, gently stroking her hair with my free hand, "It's time to wake up sweetie, it's time to come back now".
I felt her tighten the grip on hours entwined fingers, and her eye lids slowly started to flutter open, her eyes looking dazed and confused, then quickly becoming panicked as she realised she couldn't breathe properly with the tube down her throat.
Pressing the alarm button next to her bed, I tried to reassure her that it was okay, desperate to try and make that look of fear and panic disappear from her normally brave eyes.
A Nurse breezed in, happy that she had awoken and quickly removed the offending tube. After checking her vitals and administering morphine, she left, promising to return with the Doctor as soon as she found him.
"How are you feeling?" I asked her gently, figuring that this was a pretty stupid question, but not knowing what else to say.
For the first time since regaining consciousness she turned her head and looked at me, and then at the empty chair next to me
"Gr... Grissom" she whispered, her voice low and raspy, "He's not.. he- here"
"He just went out an hour or so ago Sar, I'll call him and get him right back"
"But he's not here Cath, he.. he's not here, you are, but.. but he's not"
I could hardly bear to look at the tears rolling down her cheeks, or to see the heartbroken look in her eyes.
So I did simply held her hand a little tighter and cried with her, trying to offer her the comfort that I knew someone else should have been giving.
How is it the first person that you need is always the last person to be there?
TBC
