Annihilation
== John: answer your phone
You were supposed to protect her. You were supposed to make sure this didn't happen. It was your only job, from the day she was born until the day you died.
For god's sake, she's only seventeen. She's just a child, and your world doesn't make sense anymore.
== John: respond
They're trying to take her away from you.
You hate them in this moment. You hate every physical warm body that stands between you and that very little girl in a very big gurney. They need to take her into emergency care, but they don't understand. You HAVE to be there. You can't let go. If you let go of her right now you have no idea the horrible things that might happen. You don't want to think about it. They pry your fingers off her hand and you threaten to break their wrists if they don't get off of you right this goddamn second.
Her eyes keep rolling back in her head, and her mouth opens and closes but no words come out. She's getting farther and farther away from you, and you want to run to keep up. You're not letting her out of your sight this time.
The doctors between you are becoming orderlies, the orderlies becoming security guards. It's so fucking noisy, the howl of wind past your ears, and you wish everyone would just shut up to let you be with your daughter in silence. She's so far away now you can't even tell if her eyes are open.
The wind stops suddenly as a fist meets your stomach, taking your breath clean out of your lungs. You can't hear her groan anymore. Someone is pulling you, pinning your chest with a sturdy hand. You thrash and you kick in blind fury, but it's never enough. She's still moving and you're not, and you can't fucking let her out of your sight again. Never ever.
There is pain that leaves your mind reeling, and the room is getting darker. You will yourself to keep thrashing, keep fighting before she turns that corner, but more hands are on you and there's nothing else you can do.
== John: drink the piss water
You are SO FUCKING TIRED of drinking hospital coffee, and this time you can't even do it from the waiting room.
You wish you smoked. Anything to distract you from how lonely it is out here in the darkness. Rose is on her way, she said, but she has a long drive ahead of her and probably won't arrive until morning. Dave and Jade are out looking for blood. If you were inside, you might have an outlet to keep your phone going, or at least enough light to finish your sudoku. But no. Security has their eye on you. It might have taken three guards and a tazer to drag you out of the ER, but drag you they did. No matter how much death and pain and destruction you silently will on every staff member in this hospital, you're stuck.
Adam's pulling up in a taxi, you would know that flop of hair anywhere. He looks horribly out of place, and you wish for once that he would leave the tie behind. No one should be dressed up like a funeral procession in a place like this.
He spots you and runs over. You can't decide if that feeling is pleasure to see him or a desire to make him go away.
"Uncle John! Oh my god, what happened?"
You mind blanks, but he's stable against your chest and you can't bring yourself to care whether or not he wants your hug. His coat feels rough under your hands, and you grab a fistful of fabric to hold yourself up. Your knees sure as hell don't want to do that job anymore. You're tired and the coffee isn't enough, and this kid loves her too. He'll understand. You know he understands when you feel his arms against your back.
Minutes pass and he shakes more and more violently, eventually falling to his knees under your weight. You should feel bad. He's a kid just like her, barely legal enough to get here on his own. You feel no guilt at all.
"You have to… you have to go inside, okay? You have to find out what's happening." There is something horrifying layering the way you sound. The gasps for air. The hoarse, high pitch. You hate it. You need to be strong; Casey is going to need you to be in the next few hours.
For all you know she died in there.
Adam pulls your hands out of your hair, trying to protect you when it should be the other way around. You're scaring him. You think the only reason he agrees to go is so he can get away from you.
The quiet loneliness returns, slowly driving you insane. You want to make noise. There is just too fucking much for you to deal with and you can't let any of it out, so you close your eyes and focus.
You're out of practice with this. It takes a moment to recognize the air around you, to understand its push and pull. It's a bitter, horrible cold, and your bones are starting to ache from the pressure of it. That's wonderful. You focus in on the chill, on the stiffness spreading through your fingers, the sting of frostbite on your ears, the slight burn in your lungs as you struggle to recover your air. The biting pain of it is calming, and your mind can steady itself for a moment to recognize just how still the wind is around you.
A door slams and there are footsteps behind you, growing louder, faster, and more erratic. With a strangled whine, Adam hits the pavement beside you. His back heaves as his stomach empties onto the sidewalk.
There is no way that the cold could have ever been enough to keep you calm.
== John: act
The orderlies are trying to help again, bringing you coffee and a blanket. Some part of you knows you should thank them, but you hate them instead. They could do so much more if they wanted to.
The cops came by, and you loathe them more than you ever thought possible. They stand between you and your daughter, using accusing tones, asking how often you have angry outbursts like the one in the ER. You have to force the rage down once again, letting it simmer under your skin while you politely tell them that anyone who would do this to his own child is hardly even fucking human. They have the wrong man.
Drew Connor. You spit the name like a curse, wondering how the hell you missed it before, and the police scribble away on their dumb little notepads. Two of them share a significant glance, and then they are gone.
You're alone now, and maybe it's better that way. Adam stood with you once, wiping his mouth in a vague attempt to wash away the taste of acid. He shivered, you remember, with the thick winter coat doing absolutely nothing to protect him from the cold. You sat together in silence for a while. He looked to you for some sort of reassurance, but you had nothing to give.
He told you that she was concussed, with a burn on her neck and her right arm dislocated at the shoulder. He told you that she had a fracture in her lumbar spine, and that she would be in for surgery soon. Then he took off. You have no idea what could be more important than being here right now, waiting for news, but something in him had broken. All he left was a puddle of bacon-scented vomit to keep you company.
The air is still around you again, helping you to concentrate. You haven't done this in about twenty years, but some things are more important than game breaking and your so-called normal life.
The breeze isn't there until you create it. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale the wind, exhale yourself. The sense of control is beautiful, though far weaker than you remembered. It takes nearly ten minutes of struggle to have the tips of your fingers vanish, slowly breaking apart from the rest of you, flexing an aching muscle after years of disuse. Your head hurts and your lungs hurt, but you have to keep trying until your forearms are gone too. Shoulders, knees, stomach, heart, bit by aching bit all of you disappears into the freezing night air.
It's very easy to find her when you can be everywhere at once. A nurse makes a mark on the chart for room 307, an local anesthetic is applied for surgery, a receptionist tells Jade that she won't be allowed to visit for quite some time. You hover, ignoring the screaming for your body to be put back together, until you can find your daughter. You move across her too-warm forehead, cooling down her skin before you tuck yourself into the palm of her hand.
Her fingers curl around you as her eyes blink too slow, and when the gurney moves, it takes you with her.
== John: Visit
Surgery must be the most grotesque method of lifesaving imaginable, you think, but you're more in the business of inflicting wounds than healing them. Still, she handled it so well. No flinching, no crying, just a slow blink and her fingers twined around you. You are so, so very proud of her.
Had you been thinking clearly, you might have realized how scary your sudden change in existence would be to a teenage girl. Had she been thinking clearly, it probably would have been.
"Dad?" Her eyes are wide and out of focus, trying to seek you out of the sterile whiteness.
"Hey, Caseadoodle." You have no idea how you manage to keep yourself stable. "How are you feeling?"
She tries to shift, but can't. "…my arm feels funny."
"I know. Does it hurt at all?"
"No." Her breathing is rough and labored, and you're at her side immediately. She needs water, so you hold a paper cup until she can take a sip. When she breaks away, her face is set in a grimace.
"My leg itches, but I can't reach." You keep trying to tell yourself that this is a good thing. She's not in much pain. She has to be okay. The strain in her face means nothing at all.
== Casey: End it
Drew's stuck in front of the TV again, shouting at his Xbox in a futile attempt to get out some aggression. He dies spectacularly, grunting in loud frustration before slamming down on the power button.
"God fucking damn shitty internet connection. Hey babe, can you pass me my soda?"
You look to your left; there's a half-drained and sticky bottle of orange soda that he must be talking about. You hand it to him reluctantly, thinking that it's at least better than anything alcoholic. He's never so bad when he's sober.
He smirks to you in thanks, chugging directly from the bottle, and a wave of revulsion hits you. You light up a cigarette to distract yourself as best you can. The nicotine helps a bit, keeping you calm while you watch Drew flip channels in his boxers.
He reaches to you with his other hand, idly toying with your ankle as he settles in on some mediocre sitcom. You inch your foot away, but his hand follows, and part of you wants to cry.
Don't let him think he owns you.
"Hey, Drew, can we talk for a minute?"
"Huh?" He puts the tv on mute, finally withdrawing his fingers from your foot. The relief washing over you gives a slight boost to your confidence. You just need to keep your head on straight and everything will be fine.
"I've been thinking. About us, and how this whole relationship is going."
"Babe, I know what you're gonna say. Shit's gonna be different soon enough, you just need to relax. Quit taking all this so seriously, we're fine. I promise." He rubs your foot again in a way he probably thinks is reassuring, but the touch sets you on edge.
"Well, yeah, that's the thing. I don't really know if I want to be fighting anymore..."
"I know. Neither do I." He un-mutes the TV, clearly expecting the conversation to be over. For a moment, you think you want it to be.
Don't give up. Don't do what he tells you.
"So I think we should break up."
He stares straight ahead in silence, blinking slowly as he starts flipping channels again. Apparently the sitcom isn't enough to hold his interest. You're not entirely sure that he heard you, but silence is better than shouting. You take a long, long drag of your cigarette before continuing.
"...Alright? We're not going out anymore. I'm going home, and I don't need a ride from school tomorrow."
He still says nothing, dropping the remote back on the bed with a light sigh.
"So... bye." You take one more quick inhale on your cigarette, letting the ash fall onto your jeans before moving to leave. The tightening grip around your foot makes your blood run cold.
"Hey, I said I'm going home. I'm out. We're done." You try your best to keep the shaking out of your voice, but you're sure it wavers. Your chin stays high, though, and for a moment you are so proud.
"I still love you, Casey. You can't make that choice for both of us." He takes the cigarette from your mouth, letting his other hand thread through your hair. His touch makes you feel ill.
We can get you out.
You ease away from his hand, pushing his wrist down against the bed. "Alright… alright, maybe you think you do. But I just think we both have our issues to work out. I think I should go home."
"I could fix everything if you would just shut up and listen to me." His hand is back, bolder this time, and he tries running his thumb across your cheek. Panic starts to rise in your stomach; you're three feet from the door, if you make a run for it you can get out.
In a fit of instinct you lash out, striking him cleanly above his left eye. He snarls, fingers tightening in your hair, the burning, searing agony of a lit cigarette pushing into the skin of your neck…
You fight back as best you can, kicking and clawing and taking as much flesh off as you can reach, but he tosses you so easily. Your back slams into his dresser, and suddenly your strength is gone.
You can feel pain and see shadows, and part of you knows that time is passing. His fist is in your stomach, your brain rattles in your skull, the air in the room is so much colder after he tears your shirt to shreds. You need help. Pins dig into your wrist with every painful movement, but your phone is in your pocket, and you only need to hit three numbers to make him stop.
The light in the room is starting to change. There's something wrong with your head. Sounds and colors start to blur, Adam's hand on your wrist was so gentle, why does it hurt so much to move now…
You never said goodbye to your dad this morning. You can't die here.
He stops, sobbing and loud and thunderous in the distance, and you manage to hit dial. The emergency response system is quick to answer, and you try, you try with every coherent thought you have, to answer. You don't have the strength to lift the phone to your ear before you pass out.
== Casey: Survive
Your dad is crying, and you wish he would shut the hell up. You're definitely miserable enough for the both of you.
At least there is no pain anymore. Your head is swimming and your limbs aren't moving like you want, but nothing hurts. He kisses your forehead gently, barely a silhouette against the fluorescent lighting, and you wish more than anything that you would be allowed to sleep.
Come find me afterward, okay?
You manage to find your Dad's hand with your good one, winding your fingers through his with as much strength as you can manage. He gasps and sobs and shakes, apologizing over and over, and you try to get together enough courage to tell him to stop. None of this is his fault. He tried. Everyone tried. You just didn't listen. And the last thing you want to hear right now is his blubbering about something he had absolutely no say in.
Your ankle still itches, and you still can't move your leg to scratch it. With that numb realization and fluorescent lights boring a hole through your skull, your disconnected mind finally shuts down.
Notes from Mama Lobster: song is Annihilation by A Perfect Circle. Thank you all for sticking it out this far.
