This is the second chapter I've posted today.

WARNING: ANGST AND MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH

I've chosen to put the "A" prompt in the middle of the alphabet for a specific reason. If I posted this as the first chapter, it would be more difficult for readers and re-readers to skip this chapter of the collection if they're not interested in reading it. I've also purposefully placed it in between two fluffy chapters. The "K" prompt is already written and will be posted tomorrow. I hope it will make you smile.

Awake: a story where one character attempts to rouse the other.

Mr. Carson was not surprised to find Mrs. Hughes asleep at her desk. It wasn't a common sight, but when the house was particularly busy, she sometimes lost enough sleep to find herself nodding off as she stared at her ledgers in the afternoon. He entered quietly and closed the door behind him. He needed to wake her, but he knew that she wouldn't want the others to see her like this.

"Mrs. Hughes," he said softly, shaking her gently by the shoulder. She did not respond and he shook her again. "Mrs. Hughes, wake up."

Again, she made no response, and Mr. Carson felt very uneasy. Has she fainted? He tried to pull her into a sitting position, but she did not wake, and her head fell forward. No. It's impossible. She's only fainted. She's worked herself too hard and gotten ill, he told himself. Still, his hand went to her wrist in search of a pulse. He found nothing. But I'm not a medical man. Perhaps the pulse is faint because of her illness. I should telephone the doctor. He bent down so his ear was just in front of her mouth, hoping to hear or feel a breath, but there was nothing. He began to panic.

No. He shook her quite hard now. Wake up. Wake up! This isn't funny! I should have gone first. It always should have been me. How could this happen? She was fine at breakfast. Perfectly cheerful and energetic and beautiful. It can't be. He shook her hard again. Wake up! Come back to me! But she was dead. He touched her cheek. It was warm, though not very. She had not been gone long.

It was awkward holding her like this, trying to keep her upright in her chair when her body might as well have been boneless. It occurred to Mr. Carson, somewhere among the shock and disbelief and grief and regret, that her body would soon begin to stiffen. She needed to be taken to her bed, but he didn't think he could find it in himself to carry her body up that many flights of stairs. His physical strength might be sufficient, but it still seemed too much. He would lay her on the floor instead. He moved her body to lean once more on the desk and went to her cupboard, where he was grateful to find two blankets. One would be her pillow, the other would cover her. Not that she will need it. She will never feel the cold again. He laid these things on the floor.

Mr. Carson briefly considered asking for help, either to lay her down here or to carry her to her room, but he didn't want the others to be upset. Not yet. As soon as another person knew that she was gone, it would be real and undeniable. As long as he was alone with her like this, he could hold on to a slight hope that it was all just a nightmare, or that she would open her eyes at any moment and tease him for mistaking sleep for death. What would he have given to hear her tease him, or even for her fiercest scolding? To see anything but this cool stillness?

Mr. Carson approached the desk again, lifted Mrs. Hughes's lifeless body from her chair, and placed her gently on the floor. He rested her head on one folded blanket and covered her with the other. He sank to his knees beside her and took her hand. He knew of things like this, of healthy men and women dying suddenly before their time. A heart attack, or a stroke perhaps. Her face showed no sign of pain or distress. She had not suffered, at least. He took her hand between his and tried to speak, but he couldn't make the words come out. Instead, they rushed through his mind all at once.

I'm so sorry, my dear. So very sorry. I love you. But I've been a foolish man. I thought I had all the time in the world with you. I was going to tell you. One day. But now you will never hear me say the words. I will mourn you as a husband would, but in silence. No one must know, for I am not your husband. But my suffering is my own doing. If I had told you, even once, there would be some relief to this pain. But you are gone now. And you never knew just how loved you were. How I cherished every moment we had together. You never knew, because I never told you. I'm so sorry, my love. So very sorry…

Mr. Carson leaned down and, for the first and last time, gently kissed her lips, now cool and bloodless. His tears were flowing freely and he did not attempt to check them or wipe them away. Unconsciously, he began to chafe her hand between his, as though trying to warm her.

"I love you, my dearest darling. I am sorry. And I will be until I die." Mr. Carson watched her for another minute, then swallowed hard and took a deep breath to compose himself. He let her hand slip from his grasp and he stood up, straightening his tie and waistcoat. He took another deep breath and left the room, closing the door behind him.

"Miss Baxter!" he called out when he saw the lady's maid just down the corridor.

She walked in his direction and could immediately see he was not well. "Mr. Carson, what's wrong?" she asked.

That low, gentle tone of hers almost destroyed what little remained of his composure. Mr. Carson ignored her question. "Miss Baxter, I need you to do something for me," he told her, his voice breaking. "It is of the utmost importance that no one enter Mrs. Hughes's sitting room without my permission. You must stand guard at the door." Miss Baxter only nodded and watched Mr. Carson make his way to his pantry.

He must compose himself. He would telephone the hospital and then Grasby's, speak to Lord Grantham, and then gather the staff to tell them the news. After that he hadn't the slightest idea how he would continue. Half of him was gone and he knew that he would never be whole again.

The end.

a/n: I have a hard time reading heavy angst myself, and writing it is at least as painful, if not more so. This story was written months ago, almost against my will. The word "attempt" in the prompt stuck in my mind and I started to imagine scenarios in which there was the possibility that this attempt would fail. I did not want to write it. I did not plan to write it. I tried to think of other responses to this prompt. However, the story composed itself almost in its entirety in my mind and I decided I'd better go ahead and write it down or it would just stay up there, stressing me out. I've almost decided against posting it at all, probably dozens of times, but I finally decided to go ahead with it. As another author pointed out to me, some people like angst. I've given fair warning. Special thanks to two of my fellow authors who convinced me to post this. You know who you are. And thanks to a friend who will never read this, but who told me the story of how she reacted when her husband died, very unexpectedly, right in front of her.

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