Chapter 3: Half Empty

It smelt like death.

Not the whole hospital, but the floor that he was on. It was filled with grief and anguish, pain and sorrow. People around were crying, shouting, or had just given up. It felt like the floor for the hopeless, where patients were just that – patiently waiting for Death to finally darken their doors.

Angel went to the woman behind the desk who was busy typing away something on her computer while chatting animatedly on the phone.

He cleared his throat. "Hey, um… I'm here for someone: Wesley Wyndam-Pryce."

Instantly the nurse stopped all what she was doing as if shocked and turned to look at him, the person on the line completely forgotten. Angel felt her heartbeat quicken as she stumbled with her words. "O-oh my; th-that guy? He's um…"

"In room 303." Said a deep voice. Angel turned to see a doctor. He was tall with brown wavy hair and had a little stubble growing. He held out his hand. "I'm Dr. Damien. You must be Mr. Angel."

"303?" Angel asked.

"Yes." The doctor said, putting his hand back down after it looked like Angel wasn't going to shake it. Angel started to look for the room and the doctor tried to keep in stride.

"We received a call earlier today." he rushed. "No name, just gave the address. He's in very bad condition but he'll make it. Mr... Mr. Angel…Mr. Angel, stop!"

Angel turned around sharply to stare at him. The doctor paused to regain his breath and said, "When he was brought in, he was in very bad shape. Someone had deliberately done this to him. His eyes were… they're gone."

Angel's features softened. He couldn't say he knew as that would make the doctor pose more questions or probably call the police, but it was hard hearing it again from someone else's lips.

The doctor referred to his clipboard and continued slowly as he tried to make Angel understand. "They were extracted quite viciously, which lead to bruising and internal bleeding in the socket. There is a possible high risk – no, certainty – that putting in glass eyes would cause infection and further problems, which is very inconvenient." Angel looked at him blankly, but he continued, "They are also now very vulnerable to even the tiniest ray of light even with his eyes closed and to avoid…"

"What crap are you talking about?" Angel finally said.

"His eyes will need to be blindfolded, daily." The next words came hard for the doctor but reluctantly he said, "And they will need to be stitched closed to stop him from opening them, a good chance permanently. We could give a sedative which would numb the muscles around the eyes but that would last a few hours at best."

Angel roared and let out his frustration onto the wall, which cracked moderately under the beating.

"What else aren't you telling me." Angel demanded, turning back to the doctor.

The doctor rubbed his eyes and said, "He has also experienced severe acoustic trauma - his hearing had been exposed to extreme audio frequency levels that resulted in his eardrums bursting." He took a small breath before saying, "He's also deaf, Mr. Angel."

Angel couldn't listen anymore. He turned away from the doctor and frantically searched for Wesley's room number, past people in the corridor who were lost in their own grief and doors upon doors that were not the right one.

Finally, he found it; the numbers staring at him with finality. Angel took a deep breath, and stepped forward. He opened the door slowly and walked into the room. It felt like a different world in its darkness and chilling stillness. Then he saw him.

"Wesley." He whispered. Wesley was lying on the bed. Everywhere on his body there were cuts and bruises, the deeper one covered in bandages, and there was a lot. Angel felt his eyes moisten when he saw his face, forcing himself not to look away. Wesley's eyes were covered and bandaged;there were stitchesin front of his left ear to his cheek and next to his right eye. And the carving on his forehead was as bold and mocking as it had ever been.

Angel walked up to the bed and sat on the chair beside it. He didn't know what to do. Timidly, he reached for Wesley and gently touched his shoulder.

Wesley instantly sat up. "Oh, god. No, no. Please, stop-" he said coarsely.

Angel got up. "Wes, it's me." He pleaded.

"No! Please don't – unh-" Wesley grunted as he tried to get away.

Angel tried to calm him and hold him down before he hurt himself any further. "Wes. Wesley! Wes…"

He's deaf.

Angel grabbed Wesley's thrashing hands and gripped them in his, holding them close to his face, hoping that their coolness would make Wes realise that it was him, and that he was safe.

Wesley stopped struggling. "Angel?" he asked fear-filled with child-like innocence.

All Angel could do was hold his hand tenderly.

After a while, Wesley began to calm down and his ragged shallow breaths slowed to deep steady ones. He leaned back on his bed, his left hand still holding on to Angel's right. Wesley turned his head away, but his hold on Angel became tighter as he reveled silently in this tiny reassurance. The grip was strong to the point of hurting Angel, but he let him be.

In his world of permanent darkness, all he had left was the feeling of touch.

"I'm sorry, Wesley."

But Wesley couldn't hear him. And he never will.

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After a few minutes had past, Angel heard someone come in. He stood up slowly, but never left his eyes off Wesley. "You must be Mr. Angel. I'm sorry for disturbing you at a time like this…"

"Where's that other doctor?" Angel turned around. Wesley tightened his grip at that moment and Angel gently placed his hand to tell him that he wasn't leaving. He turned his attention back to the doctor.

"I'm sorry, other doctor?" he said.

Angel frowned. "Yeah, Dr. Damien."

He looked worried. "There are no Dr. Damiens working in this hospital. I'm the only doctor on Mr. Wyndam-Pryce."