Author's Note: Wow, I'm so happy at how quickly I was able to get this up, considering how long it is. I hope this, as well as the previous chapter, makes up for the inexcusable absence I took a while ago. I also hope it's not a piece of junk that disappoints a very, very good *cough, and evil, cough* friend of mine, nor the awesome-possum folks who read this misshapen legacy of a story. Man, is getting to an ending for this taking forever...I don't mind, though. :)
A pair of police officers waited outside room 317, where a little girl stayed. They were patient men, up to a certain point. That point was not reached, as of yet, so the assistant's and nurses' ears were saved from hassle for an hour or two more. Thirty minutes had passed since their discussion with the hall nurse, and forty-five minutes since a single soul went past in the walkway.
They were asked to remain as reticent as possible, both in public and in the place where they stood, due to the sensitive nature of the case as well as the environment. The two officers were aware of the state their witness was in, nevertheless, it was imperative that they speak with her now, instead of later. She was a sick child, and was also prone to forgetfulness, especially about her tragic experience with a madman referred to as, Dalton Walsh.
The mention of that name sent chills throughout the Sergeant's body. He, of all people, knew of the unparalleled damage that man caused to whomever he touched. When he was informed of yet another victim, his first reaction was surprise. There were never survivors. The rest died before they even reached the hospital, let alone survive two kidnappings. It was unthinkable what injuries the victims, not just the one he was about to interrogate for the second time, sustained; how violent it was, and how cruel.
All the imagination in the world would not comprehend the horror that could never be written down in a report, or shoved in a file. This was a child, forced to give up what little remained of her youth for a lifetime of unresolved nightmares, and in a few decades (maybe less), she would have to live with the fact that he was out again. Perhaps she would have married, and had children by that time. It was a crushing series of thoughts. What if it were his daughter, lying in there, unable to feel anything past her waist? He shook his head. Those were the thoughts that made him angry. Crimes against children displayed the sheer depravity of the human soul, and then some. There was no way to get used to it, not that one should try. In his mind, those sick enough to harm the most innocent of all humans deserved to be taken out into the woods and shot like the rabid dogs they were. Sadly, though, that was murder. He would have to settle for the jail system.
"Now when we get in there, watch your language," the first officer broke through the silence with a warning.
"I'm not a swearing man, Sergeant, it'd be fine," replied a Lieutenant beside him.
"You'd be surprised what she considers swearing. Such a nice kid. You know, she even offered me some cookies and milk the first time."
The Lieutenant became intrigued, "So, who is this kid again?"
"Whitney Stane," the Sergeant responded, his eyes on the manila file near the top of the door.
Shock molded the second officer's features, "Stane? As in 'Stark International' Stane?" he lowered his head in waiting for an answer.
"Yes," was the reply.
The Lieutenant released a long, drawn-out sigh. "That guy had the nerve to have a daughter? Poor thing."
"I think she looks like the mother. She's a reasonably cute little girl."
"I don't believe it. Any offspring from him has got to be one ugly duckling."
The first officer broke into a bout of chuckles, though he realized laughing at another's misfortune with Mother Nature was vulgar. "Quit it, Ivers."
Speak of the devil, and he appears. Obadiah Stane, himself, showed up from around the corner, and startled them both with a shout of, "Just what do you hope to gain from waking up my daughter?" His facial muscles were twisted in unbridled rage, and his voice soared to heights that even Ivers jumped an inch upon hearing it.
"My name is Sergeant Matherson, Mr. Stane, and this is my partner, Lieutenant Ivers," he gestured to the man beside him. "We've never met."
"Obviously."
"Before your daughter, Whitney-"
"I know her name."
"-Forgets whatever's just come back to her, we have to talk with her," Sergeant Matherson stepped forward, in front of the enraged man.
"This may be something important to the case," Lieutenant Ivers swallowed.
"'The case'? You are aware that this is my daughter. That's my daughter in there, stuck to that bed because of some freak psychopath who decided to shove a knife into her back. Now, rephrase that question."
Matherson gave the Lieutenant a discreet glare. "I'm sorry, sir," he tried to remedy the situation.
"You had better be." Stane pointed a crooked finger at the officer, "I could have you fired in a-"
"Mind your temper," he was interrupted by a tall, blonde woman with an accented voice. Ivers glanced at the woman, and then back at Matherson, who was wondering the same thing: how did they get mixed up in this mess? "What do you men want with my child?"
"I'm Sergeant Matherson, and this is Lieutenant Ivers. All we want to do is talk with her," Matherson explained. "We need more information to cement the sentence further, we want Walsh in jail for as long as possible. Besides, she knows me. It'll be fine."
The woman squinted, and diverted her eyes. Returning her steadfast gaze, she inquired of the man, "How does Whitney know you?"
"I've been with your daughter's case from the beginning. I've talked with her several times before," the Sergeant clasped his hands in front of him, switching his line of sight between the two of them.
"Fine," Stane consented, which prompted the woman to shoot him an intense glare. "But the minute she tires out, if you're not gone in fifty seconds I'll make sure you never work in this state again."
Matherson released the pack of air he kept in his lungs. "Thank you," he uttered, then opened the door and shoved Ivers into the hospital room before he could say another word.
Once they entered the room, the first thing they saw was a sight they never expected. The little girl, who became a young woman by no fault of her own, sat there, calm and collected, sewing into a piece of delicate cloth. Pillows propped up her weakened back, and she had brushed her hair in order to restore its previous shine. It must have been for a singular person, since great care was put into the parting of the roots at the top.
Dark circles were under her eyes, but a kindness still radiated from her bruised complexion. The two officers, as well as her parents, drew closer to the bed with little sound. They witnessed her hands cease movement. Her head shot up soon after. She placed down her work, and gave each of the persons a look.
"What's going on?" the child inquired. Her fingers were twisting the material she was working with as her gaze avoided the officers, and traveled between her parents.
"These police want to talk with you," the older woman spoke in a light tone, so as not to frighten the child more than she was. "But if you aren't feeling up to it-"
"I'm fine, Mother," she tucked a renegade strand of blonde hair behind her ear, "just tired." Her eyes then landed on that of her father's, and her features lit up as if her face was a string of Christmas lights. "Hi, Daddy," she greeted, to which he averted his gaze. It seemed he didn't want to look at her either.
There was a strangeness that surrounded the girl like a thick fog. As if there was a certain something that held her together, but barely at that. The Sergeant remembered the girl's eyes from the last time they spoke. Striking, cerulean eyes that shone with the utmost gentleness and understanding. They were the same, but even more so. She was sitting there, in front of them all, a young girl who twice experienced a version of Hell itself - and she looked as though she was recovering from the flu.
"Is there something I can do for you, Sergeant?" Miss Whitney Stane looked at him with a smile. Then, she scoffed a little, almost like she was laughing at herself. "I'm afraid my illness prevents me from greeting you with more pomp and ceremony, and that same illness keeps me from rising. There's a few chairs over in the corner, sir," she pointed towards them with an open hand, "Please feel free to use them."
"Thank you," was all Matherson could say. Ivers, and the parents, were left speechless.
"Is there something you wanted to know?" she asked, after the officers sat down.
"Can we get you anything, before you start?" the woman stepped forward, concern defining her slightly wrinkled features.
Whitney changed her gaze towards the woman, "A chocolate doughnut would be nice."
"Within reason, Whitney," her father countered.
"A ginger ale?" she said as if she felt a sense of guilt about the whole thing.
"All right," the woman smiled in a warm fashion, then gazed at Matherson and Ivers. "Mr. Matherson, and company?"
"Nothing. Uh, thank you," Ivers stretched his collar. Matherson shook his head to indicate the same.
The mother nodded in understanding, and motioned out the door while looking at, what they thought, was her husband. She gestured in a way that a wife would when she wished to talk with a husband, usually when he had done something wrong.
"No, no, Daddy stays," the child pleaded before they had a chance to leave. "He needs to confirm this. He should know."
"Whitney-" he began to scold her.
"Daddy, please. Please, stay here, Daddy," Whitney repeated the two most prominent words in a first-born daughter's arsenal. It worked.
"I'll be back in a minute or two." The woman went on her way after realizing that her husband was not about to leave their daughter, at least not after her gentle plea.
The child now returned her attention to the officers. "What do you need to know?" she inquired in a polite manner.
"What did you mean by 'not four, just two' when you were talking to your doctor earlier?" Matherson leaned in a bit, remembering how soft her voice was when she spoke of things that disturbed her.
Whitney glanced over at her father, who was by the door, looking for a bit of comfort. She received a small nod in return. "Exactly that. He never got four, just two." Her head dropped, which made her father move to stand beside her bed, "All they did was try and help me. They never did anything wrong. The others, they-they had to fake it, you see. They had to or he would have killed them. He doesn't stop, he never stops until..."
"Yes?" Ivers prompted.
"Until you're his, dead or alive," she wrapped the blankets around her fingers. "They knew that, too. They knew they would never escape if they didn't fake it."
Stane placed a hand on his daughter's shoulder, "She's right. I assigned two men from my security team to watch over her after the first... incident. They, apparently, had to confront this man and didn't succeed in apprehending him. She's right."
"Wow," Ivers shook his head in disbelief.
"Wow doesn't even scratch the surface," Matherson readjusted his position. "All right. Are you feeling up to another round of questions?"
"Yes, sir. Whatever you need," Whitney reached a shaken hand up towards her shoulder to clutch her father's. The two men could see her trembling, and in a way, they felt an extreme sense of guilt.
"Good. Now-"
"One question, for you. Will I have to be there, at the trial?"
The father tightened his grip on his daughter's hand. "Whitney, I don't think-"
"I have to know," she continued to stare at Matherson.
"Yes," he replied in a regretful tone. "You are the star witness, I'm afraid the courts do require...we'll do everything we can to make this less painful for you."
"Thank you. I'm ready for your questions now."
The interrogation lasted for well over an hour, leaving the poor child exhausted. However, Whitney felt a sense of relief, having gotten the images in her brain out in the open. Every word she said would be used to put the man away for a longer period, which also provided great comfort to the worn young woman. Still, she expressed her desire to be alone to rest, and so her father left the room. Presently, Stane was situated outside that room, taking a side glance at his watch.
"They're gone?" a familiar voice asked from behind.
He turned his head, still absent-minded from hearing his daughter speak. "Yes," he answered simply.
"Good. I couldn't be in that room. Just looking at her-I get sick thinking of what's happened," Désirée shuddered, visibly. "I liked to remember how precious, and little she was. Now I'll always think of her that way. If she's anything like you, she'll hate to be thought of like that. She is like you."
"I know that."
A few seconds of silence passed between them before the blonde burst out, "There's something we need to talk about."
Stane looked at her as if she had lost her mind. "Pertaining to?"
"Whitney."
The pleasant aroma of scented water invaded her nose as she browsed all the exquisite flowers. She never bought anything when she came here. It was merely to relax, cool off, be herself for a change instead of what the press made her out to be. Everything was kind here, gentle and sweet, no one yelled, and no one scolded. They had no need to. Whitney stopped at the display of daisies, so elegantly arranged in their bushels. She wished she could stay and admire them, but it was time for her to leave.
Whitney collected herself, and strolled out the door, acknowledging the lady at the counter as she left. Her heels clicked against the concrete in plopped steps, her usual statuesque movements absent from her stride. They fought again, violently. He called her worthless. Troublesome. Was she really that much of a bother? She didn't mean to cause her father any distress, all she wanted was to talk to him. Just for the tiniest, little while.
The only thing hindering her from running as fast as she could was her heels while thoughts of the one who stole her heart filled her memory. He never yelled at her; Tony was kind, and gentle, but he didn't understand. He saw her just as a friend, a lost child in the woods, but she didn't want to be either. For once in her life she wanted to be loved, but right now, all she wanted was to get away, wherever that would take her. The harsh winter breeze flowed past her cheeks, causing them to burn as she tugged the sleeves of her cardigan towards her wrists.
She remembered this day. Somewhere in the back of her unconscious mind, she remembered. It wasn't a hurtful day, at least at the end of it. She met Mrs. Garner, her son, his wife, and all seven of those wonderful children. It was, more or less, a day full of thought, and eventually, change. That day was the final straw.
She remembered how wonderful it felt to belong again. Not with them, not with clothes, parties, or magazine articles and television interviews, but something far greater. A home. A strange, distant home that welcomed and beckoned, which presented her with a clean chapter that begged to be written with an all-new pen. She let her head fall to the other side of the pillow, recalling the happiness and love. She was allowed to start over, and she did, with more fire and passion than she had ever known. It was different, perhaps, and sometimes it interpreted her decisions in a deeper way, which made them rather convicting, and therefore, saddening. But that was a good thing.
She didn't need to be around those people anyway, they were bad company. Terrible influences. Mean. Whitney swallowed, and a persistent dryness in her throat begged her to wake up, but she didn't want to. At least, not yet. Only three people knew of her conversion, and it would remain that way for quite some time. There was a special kind of fright that entered a person's mind when speaking something of great value, and one which brought on tremendous persecution. She knew it was inevitable, but at least she had a little more time. Just to straighten things out and build relationships again, before dropping such a bombshell on them. Especially her mother.
Somewhere, miles away, Whitney could hear voices - faint voices, through the parallel dimension of her thoughts, and she cracked open her eyes to see what was going on. Two figures appeared within her blurry line of sight; they looked to be her parents, standing at the foot of the bed. They were talking in whispers, which made it impossible for her to eavesdrop. The voices grew fainter and fainter by the second, until she was once again trapped under the fog of pain killers.
Now, she couldn't run fast enough. The thick winter air made it harder to breathe, and she continued to pant as she zoomed across the empty sidewalks of Manhattan. Far behind her, due to adrenaline sharpening her hearing skills, she could hear the footfalls of her adversaries, coming closer with each passing step. If Tony hadn't left, forcing her to walk home alone, this mess could have been avoided altogether. Whitney struggled for air, a sudden urge to cry out causing a sob to emerge from her throat. Pain radiated from the heel of her foot as she struggled to maintain balance on the stilettos she wore, and a now-bruised left hand added to her aches.
After another block or so, Whitney ceased to hear any footfalls, excluding her own. So, for confirmation, she slowed herself down and turned to look behind her. There was no one to be seen, not even a shadow. A calming sensation swept over her thumping heart, and she turned back around to head home. However, she had only taken a few steps when out of the blue, a rough hand clutched her arm. Whitney gasped at the sudden contact, her eyes trained on the shadowed face that owned the hand.
"Let go!" she began to scratch at the man's arms and face, and included a few rabbit punches from her right fist, (since he held onto her bruised left.) She nailed him on the cheek once, as was told by the low cry emitted from the darkness.
The potential kidnapper growled, and held on to her left wrist even tighter. "That's it, kid. Once was enough, I'll-"
"Shut up, Lenny," another voice instructed from the alleyway.
Lenny heard this order, but it didn't stop him from glaring at her as if she was about to become his next murder victim. And she had no doubts that he murdered before. Still, Whitney began to struggle even harder; wriggling, biting, and scratching as well as trying to flip herself around. He kept her in a position that rendered her unable to attack, and it made her cheeks inflame with rage.
"Look, she's flopping around like a fish," the Lenny person snarled. "I can't hold her any longer."
Whitney's throat constricted over this "Lenny" comparing her to a water-dwelling, cold-blooded creature, and so she burst out, "Then let go before I pound you into the cement, you simpering, idiotic-" She was silenced by another sweaty, dirty hand over her mouth.
"She won't shut up," Lenny whisper-shouted, a tone of equal disdain in his voice.
While in a state of balance between outrage and frustration, Whitney narrowed her eyes, parted her lips just enough, and chomped down on the disgusting patch on skin. Plus, (as if that wasn't enough), she stomped down on his foot with her heel, effectively snapping it from her shoe. To her satisfaction, she was met with a yelp of pain somewhere along the lines of, "Get this mutt off me!"
"Gladly," a low voice resounded from behind, along with a sharp whistle of wind; which didn't sound like the one who'd spoken before. In an obvious way.
"Let's get out of here," the other thug, the one from before, shouted amid thundering footsteps. No more than a second later, Lenny scurried off like a chastised puppy, and took his unsanitary hands along with him. Whitney, now free of any sort of danger, stumbled over to the brick wall, and leaned against it, wiping her mouth and spitting out saliva at a rapid pace. No matter how hard she tried, the taste of mud remained imprinted on her lips.
"Did he hurt you?" the deep voice sounded again, and the teenager straightened.
"Which one are you?" her confidence was non-existent, making her tone quiver; blood coursed through her reddened ears as she waited for an answer.
"It's all right. I'm trying to help you. Honest," the voice seemed softer after she had expressed her discomfort.
Whitney spun around to face the darkness of the alley once again, and scanned the area for shadows and devious villains. Such as, Mr. Lenny and His Terrible Hands. "Then where are you, if you're not going to hurt me?" she rested her body weight against the wall once more, her calves burning from the previous sprint session.
"Right here. Look up."
Her eyebrows scrunched together, but she obeyed, lifting her line of sight to catch a glimpse of distorted red and gold. Whitney gasped at the sudden sight, and her heart leaped into the tight space of her throat. Scraping at the wall, (and trying not to collapse as her knees quaked), she asked, "Who're you?" as she hadn't seen this "person" before. Of course, she had heard of the acclaimed armored hero in news segments and the like - but she never expected this.
There was a burst of blue light from where the figure was situated, and before she knew what happened, a jolt of air pulled her mussed locks behind her ears. She couldn't help but back up the tiniest fraction of an inch. Although a certain familiarity shrouded this man in armor, she was not willing to trust him as of yet. Some thugs attempted to stage a kidnapping, most likely for money, and her hands continued to tremble and her heart continued to thump. Crediting a man masquerading as a superhero did not seem like an appropriate stance at the time.
"I saw you with them," Iron Man admitted. "There was this van, too. Obviously you didn't like these guys, so, I figured something was up."
"I'm fine now. I broke a heel, that's all." Whitney slipped off both shoes, to keep her balance.
"I can take you home, Wh-uh, Miss?" She tilted her head; Whitney heard the hero pronounce two distinct consonants, the beginning of her name, or so she thought.
"St-" she began to utter her last name, but decided against it. Iron Man. A frequent topic of her father's rants and outbursts. She thought it would be in both their best interests, if she refrained from revealing what her true heritage was. And so, Whitney said, "Stewart," instead. "Valerie Stewart. And, no, thank you. I'll walk. Heights, you know," Whitney faked a demeanor of security, though her pulse still raced beneath the skin of her throat.
"Oh." She wasn't sure, but she thought there was a hint of disappointment in his voice. "Does your hand, uh, need medical attention?"
She tilted her head; as a hero, she assumed this armored man had more important work to do than ask about her well-being. "I'm all right. Really," she habitually reached for her shoulder to readjust the bag she owned, forgetting that it had fallen off in the run. After a light sigh, she added, "I might have to replace some things, but I'll be fine."
"Good. That's...good. I'd probably better go now." And with a gentler burst of both light and air, he rose up into the darkness. "Oh yeah, and if you're worried about those guys, don't be. They're taken care of."
Whitney allowed a faint smile to curve the edges of her mouth, "Thank you again."
"You're welcome," she heard the deep voice say. Whitney nodded, a respectful gesture, before turning around to head home. Until she heard heard a whisper of, "Miss Stane."
She almost suffered whiplash.
That day meant nothing to her at the time, but as she laid in bed, it became a memory filled with innocence and importance. It was him in that armor, her darling, protecting her in a subtle way. She supposed it gave him quite a laugh when she lied about her name, considering what he said before she left.
Whitney's eyelids lifted up in a slight manner, allowing her to see her feet at the end of the bed, and nothing else. She felt funny. As in, shot-up-with-painkiller-funny. She must have made quite a fuss, or else her mother wouldn't have permitted such a high dose of medicine. A laugh built up in her throat, but she never let it escape. Whitney decided then, if losing control of your brain is what it felt like to be intoxicated, not a drop of alcohol would reach within fifty miles of her home. Although, this was a sensation all-too-familiar, as well as the location of a hospital.
Especially the psychiatric ward.
Whitney felt like closing her eyes again, and so she did. Counting how many times she'd been admitted for having either a nervous breakdown, an anxiety attack, or both, would have taken her ages. Besides, sheep and blessings were a much better subject to number during sleep time. Nonetheless, the months following her incident could hardly be considered as happy ones, but not a soul residing in her inner circle expected a miraculous recovery, or for her mental faculties to repair themselves. There were times when she heard sounds which reminded her of a certain experience, it sent her back to live those memories over again, no matter how much she begged for the opposite.
She understood the weight of her illness, that it could never be repaired, only controlled. Her mind was a roller-coaster during those awful months, even plays, on the actor or critic's side, seemed as if it was a distant activity she wished no part in. She hoped that wouldn't happened again. It wasn't just about herself now, it was about her friends and family, and how they reacted to her condition. They were suffering as well, and she had to console them. It was her job, as a daughter, best friend, and romantic interest. She supposed that was what he saw her as now, an interest, after the exchange they shared. Though she held out hope that wasn't the case.
Her breaths became slower and more controlled, as she settled into calmer thoughts. This time, however, she would be stronger. Nonsensical thoughts were barred from her brain, due to weeks and weeks of aggressive therapy and, of course, many hours spent in the chapel absorbed in prayer acted as a soothing method as well.
But there were some instances that could never be alleviated, dare she think, not even with prayer. Such as the feelings, certain nuances, reminders that ranged from colors to static that brought on terrible flashbacks and nightmares. The nightmares would always be there, present within her mind, deep within her subconscious. It would always be there, the memories. Horrible, horrible memories that only reappeared inside her dreams. Whitney didn't want to sleep, not with thinking these things. Nevertheless, the painkillers had other ideas.
And so, she sunk into a state of deepened dreams.
Whitney staggered toward the concrete wall of her basement prison, blood dribbling down the side of her face from a nasty blow. Bending one knee to kneel on the cement, she swiped at her bottom lip, and winced at the sting of her dirtied flesh against the sensitive cut. Raising her bruised chin, Whitney caught a distorted glimpse of her enemy.
"Had enough yet?" his raspy voice only stoked the flames of her defiance, though it seemed every part of her body was contracting in exhaustion.
She scrounged up some remaining strength to rise onto her searing feet, curled her hand into a fist, and blindly swung in the direction of which the words originated, only to be knocked out of her wits by another jar to her brain. Whitney then collapsed to the floor, her lungs perforated by icy daggers. Stars danced in front of her eyes while the room spun around like a child's carousel.
She was going to die here, in this foul basement, shivering and crying and begging. It was bound to happen. She contorted herself into a fetal position, fearing an even harsher beating than the last time. On this occurrence, however, he merely clutched the sleeve of her torn sweater, and jerked her body up.
"I asked you a question, and I expect an answer," he grasped her face with one hand, and squeezed the bones in her cheeks.
Whitney's eyelids felt as if they were anvils, and her head was the same. A sticky substance rolled down her chin, mixing with her sweat and tears. "Yes," she swallowed, her vocal cords constricting with the strain of speech.
He squeezed harder. "And will you try and get away from me again?"
A whimper rumbled in her throat, but she refused to let it escape. She shook her head, and ignored the sense of nausea that cramped her stomach as a result.
He released her face, and swept her into his arms. She felt his thick hand wind itself deep into her matted tresses. "It used to be so soft," he uttered. "Why isn't it soft anymore?"
She had no desire to fight, at least not now. She was too tired. She was disgusted, but too tired. Pain radiated from crevices in her body that she never knew existed, so she just stayed there.
"You are my Cassidy, aren't you? Of course you are," the man yanked on her hair, sending her head backwards faster than a Ferrari.
She gasped at the sudden movement, and her mouth remained open as she panted for air. Her lungs required barrels of it, but they were not at all pleased with how her throat was positioned.
"My poor Cassidy. So tired. Go to sleep, Cassie." His fingers caressed her jaw line, but at this point she stopped caring. She stopped feeling, altogether. She had drifted off to a tormented sleep.
Sweat tickled the sides of Whitney's neck, clinging to her hair and skin like a leech. Deep within her ribcage, she felt her heart pounding, threatening to metaphorically explode with fear. Her eyes darted to different places, searching the blurry room she lay in. Whitney let her jaw relax, and open, sucking in fresh, morning air. At least she could assume she was safe. Whitney's muscles tensed; she might be tied down, about to be tortured, maybe even worse. She could be with him. He was waiting for her, hiding in the fog, waiting until she screamed. She didn't know where she was. The area around her was a mess of white and orange, a blurred, hectic image of disaster and pain. Blackness stirred behind her vision, but she didn't want to resort to sleep - sleep was terrifying. She never wanted to sleep again.
She wanted her father.
Tears streamed down her face, and her fists clenched a warm blanket beneath her. "Daddy?" she called in a rasp. "Dad, I'm scared."
No one answered.
Audibly swallowing, Whitney called out again. "Dad? Daddy, are you there?"
Not even a rustle of wind. Had they all left her? Perhaps they forgot, as her parents usually did during her younger years, and her father carried on that habit well beyond her ascension into a teenager. It was too good to be true. She should have known any familial relationships between them were doomed. She was all alone again, she knew it. Once more, she betrayed herself as a fool even to believe they cared, for once in her life.
Just as another salty tear made its way down her cheek, the door on the side swung open, and jammed onto the doorstop. Whitney's shoulders tensed, and her chest heaved up and held, a tremble beginning in her hands. It was a year ago, all over again.
"Whitney?" Whitney recognized her mother's voice, and released the air caught in her throat.
"Mom?" she answered.
Whitney concentrated her ears on the footsteps coming toward her - as a sense of comfort. "Are you all right, honey lamb?" she felt her mother's palm on her forehead, strumming the skin with a gentle, motherly touch. "I'm here. There's nothing wrong."
Her features softened to a calm expression, and a chiffon beam arched her blanched lips. "I'll get better soon, I promise."
"And I," she leaned in to kiss her forehead, "will hold you to that promise."
"Where's Dad, Mom? Is he here?" Whitney blinked innocently.
Her mother sighed, and bit the inside of her cheek. "He had to work." She discreetly rolled her eyes at the ceiling, and whispered, "as usual."
Whitney's nose twitched - a change of topic was in order. "How, when, do I get out?"
"It all depends, really. On how you're feeling, and doing." Desiree's beryl eyes gazed upon her daughter as if she was the most precious gift in the world. "And you do...understand...the difficulties. Don't you?"
Whitney chewed the inside of her cheek, a shyness about her injury causing her to draw back. "I'll be okay."
Her mother caressed the side of her face, "You always were a happy little girl. Always smiling, and happy." She leaned in, and whispered in a low, convicting tone, "And always falling off trees," which made her daughter let out a hoarse laugh, the first in weeks.
Whitney delighted in the presence of her mother, smiling an endless smile. Although, her stomach had other ideas. It churned in a way that warned of adverse effects, and she gulped down the bile that singed her throat. "Mom?" she quivered. "I think...I'm gonna be sick."
Her mother's face elongated, "Oh dear. Okay, I'll call the doctor." She removed herself from the bed, but Whitney snatched her hand.
"Can't you, call him from here?" she gazed up at her with a saddened appearance.
"All right, honey," she sat back down, reached over her body for the hospital patient remote, and pressed a button. "Just lay there, and be still, okay? Try to stay calm, and you'll be fine," her mother soothed, caressing her knuckles, and she nodded. Désirée then lifted her head, "Where is that doctor?"
As if he heard her low plead, the doctor entered the room in the same manner as Whitney's mother.
"She didn't have a reaction, did she?" he sounded out of breath.
"Oh, no, no." Désirée shook her head, "she is just sick to her stomach."
"Okay," Whitney heard the doctor sigh. "It's a normal reaction to the anesthetic, in a few hours she'll be fine."
"Fine?" Whitney complained, her eyes trained on the ceiling. "I do not feel fine."
"Isn't there something you can do for her?" Désirée pleaded, her hand clasped with her daughter's.
The doctor scratched his chin, "Some juice, or ginger ale'll work pretty well. I might cancel the next dose of painkillers, just to see how it goes."
"Thank you," Whitney's mother smiled, and Whitney, herself, would have - if her stomach wasn't pretending to be a tornado. "Oh, and doctor?"
"Yes, ma'am?"
"It was all right that I'm in here? I-I mean, she can see visitors now?"
"Yes. She's fine now."
Whitney viewed her mother's face once more, and the gentle grin that swept across her lips. Seeing her Mom in an actual state of calm, considering the variety of emotions she observed her mother experiencing for months on end. It warmed Whitney right down to her toes.
"Mom?" Whitney called out of habit.
"Yes, honey," her mother began to stroke her forehead, while the door to their sides creaked shut.
"Can you stay, until I fall asleep?" she let herself be comforted by her mother's touch.
"Of course, dear," Désirée replied, a stiffness about her shoulders.
"I'll be back with the glass," the doctor's voice filled Whitney's ears, and soon afterward, a noise which resembled a creak took its place.
"I'll stay with you, deary."
Almost instantaneously, Whitney's eyes widened to the point of saucers. "Don't say that. Please, don't ever say that again," she braved her tossing stomach to speak with a quaking voice.
"I-I didn't know, Whitney, what's wrong?"
"Nothing, nothing. It wasn't your fault. You didn't know."
While she was still unprepared, and quite doe-eyed, another creak sounded into the room, "Okay, I've got the ginger ale," the doctor's voice said soon after. "Now I want you to drink all of this."
Whitney tried to push herself up with her hands, but it proved too large a task for her weakened arms. Her mother, as well as the doctor, noticed her struggle, and helped lift her to a sitting position. "Thank you. I'll drink it all," she said, and clutched the plastic cup in both hands.
"Good. Let me see that eye for just a second," the doctor traversed over to the door, and turned off the lights. Whitney tensed after he did so, but forced herself to remain calm in the presence of her mother. "Okay." Her mother stepped back while the doctor flashed a light into Whitney's left eye, the one still bruised. "I've been worried about that one. We'll put another patch over it and see if it will accelerate the healing process. Right now, you need to rest, and drink. Intermittently, of course," he walked over to the door again, and turned the overhead light back on.
"I can stay with her?" Désirée questioned the doctor, her hand clasped over her daughter's again.
"Yes, but make sure she sleeps for at least an hour or so. We need to build up her strength. You're not going to have an easy time of it," the doctor said, the solemnest tone she had heard from him during her stint in the hospital. Which allotted to a time of a week, and one-quarter. One week without seeing the sunlight, except through the small window to the side of her room.
"I've figured that," Whitney fingered the rim of her plastic cup, her eyes now drifting across the room.
He let out a small, yet still detectable, sigh. "I'll be back later."
There was yet another creak, and Whitney was left alone with her mother once more. She never liked to think it, or even encourage such thoughts, but being alone with her biological mother fostered a feeling of uneasiness. This woman in the room gave her life, and yet, she was still a stranger. Of course, they conversed from time to time without complication, however, that grace was only due to Whitney's patience. Her mother retained the nonsensical idea that she never left, and therefore, she acted like she hadn't. Whitney was much too grateful for her presence to combat that idea.
"The blankets warm enough for you?" her mother pierced through her thoughts. She began to fiddle with the sheets over-top her legs, of which remained an enigma.
"Mm-hmm, they're fine. It's you and Daddy I'm worried about," Whitney took a tentative sip from her medicine-laced ginger ale.
Silence passed between them did what seemed like an eternity. "Why?"
"You look so tired, and Daddy...he's never talked to me so much before, he even let me hold his hand and didn't scold me for being clingy or-or being too emotional."
"He's apt to do things that way."
"I don't want his pity, or yours for that matter. I don't deserve it, or anything really. I think I know now."
"Of course you do, my lamb."
"Make sure Daddy takes his pills, the high blood pressure ones. He has three now, and a baby aspirin he has to take. He tries to weasel out of taking his vitamins, too."
"I'll make sure," Mother noticed her exacerbated exhaustion, and slipped the plastic cup from her hands.
"And don't let Miss Valarie do all the work around the house, her sciatica is pretty bad this time of year," Whitney continued on with her set of worries, even while her mother tried to lay her back down onto the pillow, to much success.
"I'll do that."
"And-and if you see a boy, five foot nine, with blue eyes, and a crooked smile, who never combs his hair. Rather tan, but not too much. Patched jeans that should've been tossed years ago. Sweet little nose. Kind, generous, loyal, sincere, and honest, and gentle. Much too smart for his own good and rather full of himself, tell him Gracie's lonely." Whitney's mind immersed itself in pleasant memories from their past together. Although she had not heard word from him, or her faithful friends, Whitney never entertained the thought that they abandoned her. The four of them had gone through too much together.
"What?" her mother held a confused expression about her face.
"He'll know. If you see him. You probably won't, but if."
"I'll try. Goodnight."
So, Whitney, the blonde with an unloved past, drifted into unconsciousness knowing that love was in abundance. She also fell asleep with the knowledge that hatred, albeit a common emotion, strangled the heart in its thick vines. She had no need for such things, not anymore. Gracie, Whitney, whatever her acquaintances and friends preferred to call her, was a beloved figure. At least inside the new circles she tread within. Whitney dwelt among the faithful now, although she was afraid of many things.
Whitney Stane, at the tender age of seventeen, was about to learn another lesson. She was about to learn how much people can hate a wheelchair girl, who had the misfortune of believing the right things in the wrong town.