A/N: Hey, my little ducklings, all swimming in a pond! How are you? Hope y'all had a good Crimbo and a happy New Year!
OK, I wrote this one-shot sometime after Crimbo, but before New Year. I finished just now. At 4am in the morning. Even though I have to get my bus for school in 2 hours. Hehehe.
As you may notice...this is written in the...what is it? The 2nd person? Yeah,I think that's it. So that makes it different to the books. I hope you don't mind. I'm just trying out different things at the mo...
All you God lovers... well, there is quite a bit of God whumping. I apologise. I myself am not a huge fan of the Big Dude. Some of that hostility may come out in this fic...snort
So, please. No angry emails or reviews about the dissing of God. Because I won't listen. Or read. At all. No offence, but I just don't really care...
You replace the phone gently back in its cradle, then you stare at it in shock, horror, disbelief, and paralyzing fear.
So paralyzing that when you move again you see that five whole minutes have passed. 300 minutes. 18000 seconds. And you're galvanized into action.
You tear through the house, running to the door then whipping round to grab the keys off the hook on the wall, then you're running to the car and fumbling to get the door open. You finally get a grip and yank that stupid little piece of plastic up, waiting to feel the slight catch as the mechanism slides out of place and the door lock releases.
But it doesn't happen.
You're frantic, pulling and pulling that stupid little door handle. Something falls from your pocket with a jingle and a clatter of metal hitting concrete.
The keys.
A fierce growl rips itself from your throat and you snatch up the keys, taking a moment to actually slide them into the slot, and then twist viciously, the sound of all four locks releasing.
But you don't pause. The keys are already being pulled back out and you're already jumping onto the seat, banging your knees on the steering wheel, not noticing the throbbing pain that momentarily makes itself known.
The door is being slammed shut.
You're trying to fit the keys into the ignition but it's not working. You slap your hand on the steering wheel and again ignore the pain as the keys dig into your soft flesh. Taking a deep breath, you try to calm the shaking, and are surprised when you can.
Using the little spurt of victory that briefly shoots through you, you easily insert the keys in the ignition, and turn.
The engine purrs to life and air conditioning instantly blows out at you from all angles, chilling the sweat that you hadn't noticed pooling on your skin.
You turn the air conditioning off, not liking the chills that spike through you violently.
Your hands are still shaking, but less so. You put the gearshift in reverse, and slowly do just that. You thank God for your license, which you eventually took the effort to get last month.
Then you laugh, a bitter bark that cuts through the enveloping silence in the empty car, and you ease the gearshift to drive, making your way down the sunny street. Why are you thanking God? Especially for something so trivial as a stupid driving license.
You take back your thanks to God. You take back any thanks you've ever made to God and then you dismiss him from your mind; your life; your world. He doesn't exist, anymore.
Unconsciously, your foot applies more pressure on the pedal, forcing it down, and the car's wheels churn just that little bit faster, and the colors fly past just that little bit faster.
Your foot presses harder.
You ignore the lights as they beam red, and you relish the annoyed blare of a horn that follows your rebellion. A tiny grin peaks the corners of your lips, and your foot presses harder.
Who even cares? you wonder. Honestly, who actually gives a fuck? Nobody out there, that's for sure. Nobody out there, in the Californian yellow sunshine and blue skies, not even blinking as you zip past them.
Uh oh. The speedometer's arrow is jaggedly zooming into the danger zone.
You resolutely ignore that, and press your foot a tiny bit harder.
Now the colors are really whizzing past, blurring together, the bright, singular colors blending into an ugly mess. The road lines are merging together and everything's a streak.
Everything has gone streaky, irregular.
You push it from your mind, and stare ahead. You don't even know the way, do you? Do you even care? Probably not. You turn onto a road, and carry on.
The sun blares into your eyes suddenly, big and bright and sunny. You wince instinctively, and pull down the visor, blocking out the spearing rays. Sometimes you hate California, you decide. Sometimes you hate it a whole lot…
Eventually the building pulls into view. The one you didn't notice the first time you saw it. You're so numb by now you don't notice the whirring red and blue lights, or the wailing sirens that scream past you. You just park up, brakes squealing and seatbelt snapping in protest, and you go.
The receptionist is gentle and nice, and you hate her. You hate her sympathetic brown eyes and her slightly sad smile. You hate the way her hair's pinned on top of her head and you hate the flowery shirt she's wearing.
You stride in the direction of the lifts and get stuck behind an old man hobbling with an IV drip attached to him, his pale, skeleton hand clutching the metal pole, bulging blue veins a stark contrast to his hand's pallor.
You look away and push past.
You spot the lifts and quicken your pace toward the big grey cold steel doors. You impatiently press the button, only to see it was already lit up. Distracted, you glance around and notice a middle aged man standing next to you. He smiles in the way the means he has more important things on his mind than to worry himself about a teenage girl, and you're thankful for it. You notice the skin pulled tight at his mouth and eyes, and his twisting hands.
He's obviously anxious. But he's calm.
You decide you hate him too and when the lift comes you barge into it and press your floor. Then you stand, tapping your foot.
Did lifts always move this slowly? you wonder. The doors open but it's not your floor. As the man steps out you glare at his back. Time-waster, you think bitterly, unfairly, and jab the Close Door button.
Going up.
You reach your floor and suddenly you're nervous, shy, scared. God, so scared. You want to turn back, to run away. You do turn, but the lift doors are already closing, sealing with a sucking noise, the polished metal reflecting your image back at you, only it's slightly distorted and blurred, and the colors aren't as bright.
You turn away and take a deep breath. One you instantly regret as the sharp tang of disinfectant and other things sting your nostrils.
You only breathe through your mouth, from now on.
A nurse is walking by and you stop her, asking her directions to where you need to go. She nods and tells you, you walk away but can feel her eyes on you for a moment longer, then you feel as if you're surrounded by cold water as you get nearer to where you're supposed to be.
The door you stop at is pink. Pastel pink. It looks cheap, you decide.
If only you could open it. If only you could reach through this cold water and push down the handle, open the door and then step through the doorway and out of this cold water. If only you were strong enough…
You vaguely wonder if He can hear you. If the Lord can hear you now, panicking and afraid. You wonder if He's even paying attention. You doubt it. And you promise yourself that if you ever get to Heaven, you're going to kill Him. Slowly.
A burst of energy shoots through you, just enough to get you to open the door. Which you do. You step through and shut the door behind, and you regret it.
You regret ever picking up the phone, driving down here, coming into this building, and stepping into this room.
Because in harsh, mocking disparity; this room is silent. Except for an electronic bleeping. And outside this room you know is loud humming and chattering and other human noises. Out there is cold and impersonal. In here is personal. Too personal. Dagger-to-the-heart personal.
You take a step forward and your eyes are locked on the body in the bed. Your ears are trained on the beeping machines.
You sit down on a chair next to the bed.
The door opens but you don't look up. A doctor walks up to you and says your name.
Distantly, you nod.
He's saying something, mumbling, quickly, but to be honest, you don't really care. You should, because he's saying something horrifically important.
He says your name after a while, and you realize he's stopped talking you nod. He says your name again, and something in his tone alerts you, something in his tone sets off a trigger you really wish he hadn't set off.
You reverently wave your hand in a sharp gesture that clearly says, Leave. Now.
And he does. And you're glad because that trigger he pulled just by sounding concerned set off a chain reaction that finally reaches your senses. And your eyes sting with tears and the starch leaves your spine and you fall forward, face smashing into the bed covers.
Sobs threaten to break apart your body and it's uncomfortable in this position but you just don't care. You can't cry hard enough, it seems. You can't sob loud enough but you have to. Because there's something, there's a pressure building up inside of you that's threatening to stop you breathing if you don't cry hard enough, if you don't sob loud enough.
So, dammit, you cry harder, and you sob louder.
Your heart, you can feel, is broken. There's only one person in this room other than you, and they're not even there with you. You breaking down, breaking apart, all on your own. There's no one to catch you, this time. You fall, you don't get back up.
You're falling.
"No, no, no, no! No!" You howl into the bed covers, the crisp sheets filling your mouth but you don't care. "No!" You want to scream, to tear this place apart, to thump your fists against something, someone. To hurt yourself and watch yourself bleed. "No…" You want to just lie down somewhere, curl up, and die. To fade away into nothingness. To lie there until you dry up and blow away…
Because the doctor's words are hitting home. Hitting right where it hurts and you realize this is the end. Of you, of your life, of everything.
Car crash… internal bleeding…broken bones…fractured spine…fractured skull…DOA…
Dead on arrival.
A family, destroyed.
Almost. The bleeping still goes on, and you pray for this one to be kept. To stay alive. You pray for his life not to be taken, taken away from you. You apologize to God; tell Him you didn't mean what you said. Beg for him to keep this one… you need this one…
The beeping stops.
It's now one mournful note that pierces the air and the silence and your heart.
And suddenly, you're all alone.