Thank you for all the reviews on this story and I apologise for the delay in updating it. Real-life has been a thing.
Most of this story is going to be from Henry's point of view, an exercise for myself in writing the character comfortably.
A reviewer asked about Alison, in this story universe she is in Europe as part of her studies and will be heading back to the states, but isn't travelling with her siblings.
They took her off the ventilator today and he thinks this should be a step in the right direction yet… It's clearly not. They think he doesn't see the sideways looks they give each other or hear the hushed whispers. He stopped listening after overhearing irrecoverable damage. They have no answers.
She is so still. That gets him at odd moments. She is never this still, not even asleep. Always thinking, always being. This is neither.
The nurses reposition her twice a day to stop bed sores and fluid build-up. He helps, any excuse to touch and care for her. It feels so foreign. Is it helping?
Her feet are swollen, and he spends time rubbing lotion into them, talking nonsense and reminiscing with the wind until he can barely breathe for the water clogging his mouth and eyes.
He wants her back.
They tell him she's breathing on her own. Although they have her on 90% oxygen to help. The doctors explained why this was better but as hard as he concentrated all that sunk in was the word better.
He's not sure this is or will be.
The shunt in her brain is not visible, but he watches the tube snake slowly past her ear, spending long moments watching the fluid slowly collect into the bag. The nurses tried to hide it, to give him something else to focus on but late at night when the demons come, that steady drip along with the beep of her heart monitor is all that keeps him from fracturing.
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The water pounds against his back and shoulders as he steadies himself against the cold tiles. It grounds his soul in the middle of the cyclone his life has become. He doesn't want that. Doesn't want to be here. Hadn't wanted to leave her. The kids had been insistent, and he can't begrudge them their time alone with their mother. Not now. The devastation on Jason's face and Stevie's tears linger and swirl on each breath he takes. It coats him in pain mingling with deep-seated despair that never left from the moment he was blinded by white light.
No child should have to see their parent like this.
He's not stupid, they knew there was always a chance. Dangers are potentially around every corner. The first six months had made it clear there was a vocal opposition that would like to see her destroyed. But this?! The reality is something beyond all nightmares. This is reality consumed in flames. The water starts to cool, and he shivers, sluicing the shampoo out of his hair before getting out.
There is no shortage of towels, a perk he used to tease her about and now, he envelopes himself in them before curling up on the massive bed. Way too big for just one and at that he lets the tears come uninhibited. Great raking sobs that rattle his whole body and pull at sore muscles. He screams into the mattress letting out all the anger, horror and pain of the last few days. Eventually, his body is spent. Salt drying on his cheeks and his breath catching rapidly in his throat, he feels parched.
Drained. Emptied of life.
He shifts slightly against the now wet sheets but doesn't move, the discomfort coats something deep inside, lingering on the distorted pathways of his existence. He absently scratches at a scab on his arm and stares out the window, willing sleep or answers to come.
He is not sure how long he lays there, drifting in the haze between the edges of consciousness and oblivion but he's dry when the knock comes. He ignores it at first, too drained to deal with anything until his mind panics, what if…
He dives off the bed, tripping on a towel that slips tangling around his legs and falling heavily against the mattress. He curses as the knock comes again, "Henry?"
He wraps the remaining towel tight around his waist and opens the door. Blake must see the panic in his eyes, "She's OK. There's no change." He feels himself visibly deflate at that. "I ordered room service."
It's then he sees the trolley next to him. "I'm not hungry."
Blake frowns "I know but you need to eat. For her." The argument bubbles away at that. Nodding he moves out the way as Blake pushes it inside. "Call me when you are ready to go back." He nods again, distracted by imagines of her, them, this.
He turns to answer and realises he's alone again. Sighing he lifts the various lids and gazes at the food. His stomach churns uncomfortably. It's too much. He picks up a strawberry and his mind flashes to a few months ago.
Europe. The G7. Elizabeth naked.
He drops the fruit and sinks back onto the bed. Head in his hand he whimpers softly.
He doesn't know how to do this alone.