EIGHT
That's when I need my father's eyes
My father's eyes
Then the jagged edge appears
Through the distant clouds of tears
I'm like a bridge that was washed away
My foundations were made of clay
*My Father's Eyes-Eric Clapton*
"I can accompany you home if you want to." Peter offered, pausing at the steps leading down to the subway.
"No, it's alright. I think I'll just go back to Oscorp and finish up a couple of the reports on my research." Emily declined. With that, they parted company.
* * * * * * * * * *
As Emily walked into the office, she heard a row going on in her supervisor's room. A couple of minutes later, a dour-faced young man walked out of the room.
"What's going on?" Emily asked one of her colleagues.
"Wilson was reprimanded for negligence. Apparently, a suit down in Lab 24 had a tear on it and none of the techies noticed it until this morning when Mr. Adams went for his routine check rounds." Her colleague replied.
"Oh." Emily said, nodding. She wasn't sure why that information made her uneasy.
Emily was the last to leave. When she finally shut down the computer in front of her, Emily was bone-tired. Her eyes were stinging from her crying session and the hours spent in front of the screen. As she packed up her stuffs to go, the phone on her table rang. It was the butler from Osborne Manor.
"Ms. Wakelin? I think you ought to come over. Mr. Osborne had just returned. He was gibberish and feverish. I had already contacted Dr. Wilms." The butler said.
Emily felt her legs gave way and her throat went dry. She had to grip the edge of her desk to stabilize herself. At last, she managed to find her voice and weakly, she replied, "I'll be right there."
When Emily arrived, the butler led her to Harry's room. Harry was lying on his bed, dressed in his black pajamas. All the colour had drained from his face and his hair was messed up and slick with sweat. Beads of perspiration gathered on his forehead and the bridge of his nose. His breathing was shallow and thin.
The doctor had just seen him and prescribed him some medications. He told her to call him if he takes a turn for the worse. He would call the hospital and ask them to arrange the necessary transportation should he require it. Emily thanked him and after he left, she sat down beside Harry and held his cold, clammy hands.
"Oh, Harry. Poor baby. What have you done to yourself?" Emily sighed, as she wiped away the sweat on his forehead.
"Em-Em..."Harry tried to speak and stopped abruptly as a spasm of violent cough raked through his body. He coughed up a wad of greenish-black phlegm into his hankerchief. Falling back onto his pillow, he shut his eyes and slowly slipped into a feverish sleep.
Emily clutched the hankerchief in her hand and slowly the pieces of the puzzle fall into her lap. Slowly, she recalled back to the day when Harry had told her about his little careless accident in the lab. She had thought nothing of it because he was wearing a suit.
*But oh, good God, what if he was wearing the suit with...the tear?* Emily felt her stomach churned at that thought. She was sick with fear.
"The only way to find out is to run a test." Emily said. She glanced down at the hankerchief. She carefully wrapped it in a plastic bag and took it with her back to the lab.
* * * * * * * * * *
Emily stared disbelievingly at the results of the test. Each test was positive but the results showed that instead of succumbing to the toxin, Harry's body was fighting back. Harry's system was producing the antidote for the toxin.
"This couldn't be true." Emily gasped, but in her heart a small hope was growing. If Harry was immune to the toxin, then she could extract the antidote from his serum. She could finally complete her research. *Oh, the possibilities are endless...*
With trembling hands, Emily punched in the number of Osborne Manor. The butler who answered the phone told her that Harry's fever had subsided and he's resting.
"Do you want to speak with him?" The butler asked.
"No, no. It's alright. Just tell him to get plenty of rest." Emily replied and said goodbye to him. *Finally, the ball is our court, Harry. It's payback time.* She smiled a hard smile, *On QuestCorps and Spiderman*
* * * * * * * * * *
She had just woken up from her sleep when she heard a commotion coming from downstairs. Clutching Rowley the Bear, her birthday present from her father, she descended the stairs groggily to reach her father's study. There were many people in the study whom she did not recognize.
She stood transfixed at the doorway to her father's study, her gaze on the spreading stain. Red stain on pale cream carpet. A dark pool of blood spread from under her father's inert form. She had scraped her knees and elbows before and she had bled but not as much as her father was bleeding right now. She wondered if they would be able to put all the blood back into him.
"Get the kid out!" Somebody had shouted when they realized that she was at the door. Huge hands, gently but firmly gripped her shoulders and led her out. That action kicked start a part of her brains. Reality seeped in like water into a sinking vessel. She started struggling.
"Let me go! My Daddy is inside! I want my Daddy! I want 'im!" She screamed.
Two months later, her mother followed in her father's footsteps. So, at the age of eight years and two months, Emily Wakelin, daughter of the renowned late Dr. George Wakelin was officially an orphan. It was years later before she realized the exact cause for her father's suicide. She vowed she would bring down the 'murderers', even if it took her a lifetime.
Dr. George Wakelin was a brilliant man in the research field of chemical warfare. In fact, he was far too brilliant that he created an unease among his colleagues and superiors at QuestCorps. He prided himself too for being a straightforward and honest man, which unfortunately for him precipitated his untimely demise.
When he discovered certain dirty truths about QuestCorps and started digging further into dangerous territories, they plotted his downfall. They framed him for selling information to Oscorp and other giant labs. They discredited his researches and forced him to resign. The final blow to Dr. Wakelin was when the research he had been working on for a long time was handed over to another fellow scientist, whom he detested. The patent and credits went to him and not Dr. Wakelin. On that fateful night of his daughter's eighth birthday, he ended his life.
