A Promise
Chapter One
----
Her eyes aimlessly wander across the room, searching for something to bring her comfort. Another dark day has passed overhead, and she's waiting for the slice of a sun's ray to save her. No such savior has visited yet. Her arms are stretched across the arm of a couch she's been lying on fir what seems like forever. Her fingernails are blank, pale she notices. Stirring slightly, she gets up. An action she couldn't imagine having happened, she continues and stalks over to her room, scrambling to find the polish in her purse.
A long minute later, she returns with a small bottle in her hand. Its cold, from sitting in the room all day. She eyes it carefully, catching the rather unattractive color to her eye. The deep maroon. She doesn't know why she brought it along. In fact, it was rare to see her with any décor fancying the tips of her fingers.
She couldn't care less as she falls onto the couch, the tightly knit cloth warm under her. She sighs as she shakes the bottle in front of her, readying herself for what should be an easy task. Painting fingernails. Anything to take her mind off of everything that was darting through her mind.
The brush swipes across the top ring of the lid, aimless as herself. It fans slightly across the nail, brushing the purple shade over it. It looks sad, and depressing. The color is ugly, she notes. Her head rises to glance out the window. Thunder rattles the cheap windows in front of her, feet away, and she counts the seconds until the lightning will shatter the numbing dark.
One thousand.
Two thousand.
Three Thousand.
Four Thousand.
It flashes across the sky, breaking two worlds apart. Her eyes blink unexpectedly and the glow flickers in the kitchen, her only source of any light throughout the apartment at the time. It continues to waver weakly before giving into the power of the storm.
"Damn it," she mutters in response to the storm. Her fingers seek out the cap of the polish's jar, and discover it wedged between couch cushions. She breathes huskily and snatches it semi-angrily. She feels like crying. And storms don't help, expecially this one.
Replacing the naked neck of the bottle with the cap, she stands up and decides to attempt to sleep. Sleep hasn't come to her easily, and the fact that she's co-caring for a baby next to her doesn't aid in the quest. When lightning sparks once more, she notices the single nail painted in front of her.
--
His eyes open immediately. He doesn't know why, but they do. He looks up to the ceiling, finding nothing that should have brought him out of sleep.
However, as he turns to his side in the bed, he finds exactly what he was looking for. The pictures littered across the surface of a chest of drawers in the corner of his room.
He groggily leaves his bed, flipping through the mass of photographs for the one he's looking for. Susan. "Where is she?" he wonders aloud, his fingers iced with the blank atmosphere swirled around him. Picture after picture, he finds nothing of what he's looking for. He sighs. He draws himself away from the pile and ghostly makes his way back to the bed he lies upon. Through the collection of blankets, a warm mattress, and a few pillows, he doesn't expect any condolence tonight. He wishes for it, but knows he can only find it in the arms of one person, one woman.
His eyes are still probing for the picture. He lies in the bed, still as stone, though and allows his eyes to search the room. He feels confined, but free at the same time. Confined because he's without her, and free because he knows he's searching, and he'll probably without her forever.
Forever. Its too strong a word, he decides. He can't help but think he says these things to ward off any pain that may be inevitable. Or if he's being truthful. Unfortunately, his head is telling him that he's lying to himself.
He never minds what it says. Its not important.
His mind takes him back a few weeks, to a kiss next to a train.
It steamed noisily out of Chicago that day, taking the love of his life in its seat. The feel of her lips still lingering on his whilst the engine headed away, as if conspiracy overtook the world at that moment. The afternoon had been a gray one anyway, and he had noticed this as he had made his dash to catch her. How important had it been to make it there? he thought. He hadn't stopped her. He'd told her he loved her. He had made his declaration to the rest of the world as it was when he said so.
And with one last stare his way, she had repeated this.
The days were long, and the nights passed him by slowly.
--
"Chloe," she pleads, shaking the woman in the bed. She was curled into the throng of sheets about her body, and stubbornly refused to untangle herself. "Chloe, Susie's crying. Its time to feed her."
She hangs her head into the pillow and begins to cry heavily. "I'm thirsty."
"So is Susie," she argues, trying to keep her tone soft with Chloe. The woman is depressed, she notes. "We have to take care of her, remember? She's waiting for you. You're her mother."
She shakes her head again and whimpers to the cloth. "Please, you get her."
"Chloe," she says, this time her voice firm against the walls of the room. "You have to get up. Now."
"I don't want to Susan," she sobs.
"What's wrong, Chloe?" Susan asks, her voice growing solid. She wishes she could go back and erase the tone, but its already embedded into Chloe's mind.
"I'm sick," she whispers. "Oh, so sick."
"You have to get up," Susan protests as she leaves the room, "sooner or later."
Chloe recognizes Susan's presence lifted from the room, and sneaks back into her nook of blank bed sheets. Susan sees her do so, and mumbles to herself. She peers over the crib, containing an innocent, screaming baby. Scooping it up into her arms, she whisks it away to the kitchen, running her hand over the baby's head.
She expects her to have a fever. But nothing shows. She kisses the top of the infant's head and rocks her gently while preparing a simple meal. A bottle for the baby, toast for herself.
--
He judges his appearance. Something he is allowed to do, seeing as he's judging his own cover.
He wonders just how well he knows himself.
THe pale scrubs do their best to conceal everything. Every feeling that's torn him apart inside. His tool, the shape of his life when he's at work - his stethoscope - hangs around his neck in mock fashion. He glances to the door and wishes, for once, that the chaos of the ER would dissolve into a sphere of nothing. Just so that he could go home and, once again, cry for someone he loves.
The day meshes into another morning-afternoon-evening play, gradually folding through his eyes. Smiles form on his face, a meek impression left by his own paintbrush, and they leave just as quickly. When no one is around to notice.
His hands search his pockets for the keys when he arrives home. The door pushes open in front of him, blindly forced by his own two hands, and he meets the blinking red light on a machine in the corner.
A message.
For a single minute his heart stops as he reads the glare of the number '2' on the screen. Two new messages.
A faint spark, sure, of the possibility. He knew he would call her, and he wanted she to do the same.
But he find himself getting ahead, and strikes the 'play' key.
"Mark, its Jen. Um, there was a slight family emergency up here, and I needed someone to watch Rachel for about a week while I straighten some things out. I know its short notice, but she doesn't want anyone else but you... please think it over. You can call me on the cell. I gave you the number when we came on Thanksgiving. It would be great, and you haven't seen her for a while... please call me. Thanks."
He nods to himself, and searches the refrigerator's side for the number. Marked "Jen's Cell," he grasps the Post-It and attaches it to the machine's side. He'll call her at work tomorrow, he thinks, as he notices how late it is by the chime of the clock. One in the morning.
Another message, the machine continues.
"Mark, its Doug. Um, I didn't ask you at work, but I got tickets to the Bulls and it'd be something you and I could do if you want."
There's a pause as the voice struggles for a word to mention, and Mark falls onto the couch next to him.
"I'm sorry about everything though... I'll talk to you later. Think it over, buddy."
The machine clicks.
Mark's day is officially over as he doses off, his mind undoubtedly troubled.
Chapter One
----
Her eyes aimlessly wander across the room, searching for something to bring her comfort. Another dark day has passed overhead, and she's waiting for the slice of a sun's ray to save her. No such savior has visited yet. Her arms are stretched across the arm of a couch she's been lying on fir what seems like forever. Her fingernails are blank, pale she notices. Stirring slightly, she gets up. An action she couldn't imagine having happened, she continues and stalks over to her room, scrambling to find the polish in her purse.
A long minute later, she returns with a small bottle in her hand. Its cold, from sitting in the room all day. She eyes it carefully, catching the rather unattractive color to her eye. The deep maroon. She doesn't know why she brought it along. In fact, it was rare to see her with any décor fancying the tips of her fingers.
She couldn't care less as she falls onto the couch, the tightly knit cloth warm under her. She sighs as she shakes the bottle in front of her, readying herself for what should be an easy task. Painting fingernails. Anything to take her mind off of everything that was darting through her mind.
The brush swipes across the top ring of the lid, aimless as herself. It fans slightly across the nail, brushing the purple shade over it. It looks sad, and depressing. The color is ugly, she notes. Her head rises to glance out the window. Thunder rattles the cheap windows in front of her, feet away, and she counts the seconds until the lightning will shatter the numbing dark.
One thousand.
Two thousand.
Three Thousand.
Four Thousand.
It flashes across the sky, breaking two worlds apart. Her eyes blink unexpectedly and the glow flickers in the kitchen, her only source of any light throughout the apartment at the time. It continues to waver weakly before giving into the power of the storm.
"Damn it," she mutters in response to the storm. Her fingers seek out the cap of the polish's jar, and discover it wedged between couch cushions. She breathes huskily and snatches it semi-angrily. She feels like crying. And storms don't help, expecially this one.
Replacing the naked neck of the bottle with the cap, she stands up and decides to attempt to sleep. Sleep hasn't come to her easily, and the fact that she's co-caring for a baby next to her doesn't aid in the quest. When lightning sparks once more, she notices the single nail painted in front of her.
--
His eyes open immediately. He doesn't know why, but they do. He looks up to the ceiling, finding nothing that should have brought him out of sleep.
However, as he turns to his side in the bed, he finds exactly what he was looking for. The pictures littered across the surface of a chest of drawers in the corner of his room.
He groggily leaves his bed, flipping through the mass of photographs for the one he's looking for. Susan. "Where is she?" he wonders aloud, his fingers iced with the blank atmosphere swirled around him. Picture after picture, he finds nothing of what he's looking for. He sighs. He draws himself away from the pile and ghostly makes his way back to the bed he lies upon. Through the collection of blankets, a warm mattress, and a few pillows, he doesn't expect any condolence tonight. He wishes for it, but knows he can only find it in the arms of one person, one woman.
His eyes are still probing for the picture. He lies in the bed, still as stone, though and allows his eyes to search the room. He feels confined, but free at the same time. Confined because he's without her, and free because he knows he's searching, and he'll probably without her forever.
Forever. Its too strong a word, he decides. He can't help but think he says these things to ward off any pain that may be inevitable. Or if he's being truthful. Unfortunately, his head is telling him that he's lying to himself.
He never minds what it says. Its not important.
His mind takes him back a few weeks, to a kiss next to a train.
It steamed noisily out of Chicago that day, taking the love of his life in its seat. The feel of her lips still lingering on his whilst the engine headed away, as if conspiracy overtook the world at that moment. The afternoon had been a gray one anyway, and he had noticed this as he had made his dash to catch her. How important had it been to make it there? he thought. He hadn't stopped her. He'd told her he loved her. He had made his declaration to the rest of the world as it was when he said so.
And with one last stare his way, she had repeated this.
The days were long, and the nights passed him by slowly.
--
"Chloe," she pleads, shaking the woman in the bed. She was curled into the throng of sheets about her body, and stubbornly refused to untangle herself. "Chloe, Susie's crying. Its time to feed her."
She hangs her head into the pillow and begins to cry heavily. "I'm thirsty."
"So is Susie," she argues, trying to keep her tone soft with Chloe. The woman is depressed, she notes. "We have to take care of her, remember? She's waiting for you. You're her mother."
She shakes her head again and whimpers to the cloth. "Please, you get her."
"Chloe," she says, this time her voice firm against the walls of the room. "You have to get up. Now."
"I don't want to Susan," she sobs.
"What's wrong, Chloe?" Susan asks, her voice growing solid. She wishes she could go back and erase the tone, but its already embedded into Chloe's mind.
"I'm sick," she whispers. "Oh, so sick."
"You have to get up," Susan protests as she leaves the room, "sooner or later."
Chloe recognizes Susan's presence lifted from the room, and sneaks back into her nook of blank bed sheets. Susan sees her do so, and mumbles to herself. She peers over the crib, containing an innocent, screaming baby. Scooping it up into her arms, she whisks it away to the kitchen, running her hand over the baby's head.
She expects her to have a fever. But nothing shows. She kisses the top of the infant's head and rocks her gently while preparing a simple meal. A bottle for the baby, toast for herself.
--
He judges his appearance. Something he is allowed to do, seeing as he's judging his own cover.
He wonders just how well he knows himself.
THe pale scrubs do their best to conceal everything. Every feeling that's torn him apart inside. His tool, the shape of his life when he's at work - his stethoscope - hangs around his neck in mock fashion. He glances to the door and wishes, for once, that the chaos of the ER would dissolve into a sphere of nothing. Just so that he could go home and, once again, cry for someone he loves.
The day meshes into another morning-afternoon-evening play, gradually folding through his eyes. Smiles form on his face, a meek impression left by his own paintbrush, and they leave just as quickly. When no one is around to notice.
His hands search his pockets for the keys when he arrives home. The door pushes open in front of him, blindly forced by his own two hands, and he meets the blinking red light on a machine in the corner.
A message.
For a single minute his heart stops as he reads the glare of the number '2' on the screen. Two new messages.
A faint spark, sure, of the possibility. He knew he would call her, and he wanted she to do the same.
But he find himself getting ahead, and strikes the 'play' key.
"Mark, its Jen. Um, there was a slight family emergency up here, and I needed someone to watch Rachel for about a week while I straighten some things out. I know its short notice, but she doesn't want anyone else but you... please think it over. You can call me on the cell. I gave you the number when we came on Thanksgiving. It would be great, and you haven't seen her for a while... please call me. Thanks."
He nods to himself, and searches the refrigerator's side for the number. Marked "Jen's Cell," he grasps the Post-It and attaches it to the machine's side. He'll call her at work tomorrow, he thinks, as he notices how late it is by the chime of the clock. One in the morning.
Another message, the machine continues.
"Mark, its Doug. Um, I didn't ask you at work, but I got tickets to the Bulls and it'd be something you and I could do if you want."
There's a pause as the voice struggles for a word to mention, and Mark falls onto the couch next to him.
"I'm sorry about everything though... I'll talk to you later. Think it over, buddy."
The machine clicks.
Mark's day is officially over as he doses off, his mind undoubtedly troubled.