I pretend to be sleeping,

When you come in in the morning,

To whisper goodbye, go to work in the rain,

I don't know why, don't know why...

We locked up Elizabeth in her bedroom and removed any sharp things so that she wouldn't hurt herself. I felt guilty; I felt as though I was keeping her as a prisoner, something that she did not deserve to be. Jackie kept reminding that it was the right thing to do, and he was right, in a way. We only came into her room three times a day-in the morning, to give her breakfast, in the afternoon, for lunch, and in the evening, for supper. But, also, in another sick sort of way, she was a prisoner, a prisoner in her own home.

Afterwards, we took extra precautions upon ourselves, and we decided to send Will away with Captain Villanueva until Elizabeth got better. It was a heartbreaking decision, but Will needed to be in an environment that was not full of overwhelming sadness. Besides, he was only two years old; no child anywhere should understand death and despair at such a young age. Without him, and the house all of a sudden being a hospital and an insane asylum all at once, it seemed there was no trace of hope left in the air. Instead, it felt dead, dull.

It took weeks for Elizabeth to utter a sign that told me she was still there. It was one afternoon, in the earliest days of spring. I brought up her lunch and opened the door to her room. She was sitting quite still in a chair, looking out the window. She did not acknowledge me as I stepped in, until I said softly, "Bess, lunch."

She turned to me and stared. She had not eaten enough for the past few days, I could tell; her red, brown eyes were nearly popping out of their sockets. I sighed, put the tray on her bed, and kneeled next to her. Taking her hands, I said, "Look at what's happened, Bess. You've gotten so ill, I don't think I know you anymore."

I let go of her hands, this time standing up and cupped her left cheek with my right hand. I caressed it a little, saying, "Can you even talk anymore?"

Her left hand enclosed onto mine, though her eyes remained unblinking. I paused for a few moments, then let my hand flop lifelessly to my side. Oh, well. I took the tray from her bed and set it on her lap. Walking away, I took her porridge bowl from breakfast and headed downstairs. I was in-between the doorway when I hear her say, "I want to hold my baby."

I turned sharply around. Elizabeth was standing up, holding the tray with both hands. Her eyes were bulging with tears as she repeated, "I want to hold my baby. I want to hold him!"

My jaw dropped, flabbergasted. I managed to grunt, "Of course, Bess. Maybe when you're a little bit better, alright?"

She pursed, her lips a thin, straight line across her face. But she nodded obediently, her hands shaking. Before shutting the door, I added, "You need to eat more. Promise that you'll finish your lunch."

She nodded again. I gave her a small smile as I closed the door and locked it. Finally, I had something to be satisfied about; Elizabeth was still inside of herself, waiting for her son to come back into her arms. I quickly checked on Jackie, who was lying on his bed, passed-out after another cession of treatment, before coming downstairs, humming. Gibbs sat at the table with a bottle of rum. He looked up at me when I came in, bewildered. "What's got you in a merry mood, Captain?" was his question.

I bent over and gave the bowl to the prison dog, who happily began lapping up hardening porridge. When I straightened up I said, "Bess spoke to me up there. She said she wanted Will!"

Gibbs's eyes widened. "Mary, Mother of God," he whispered.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Even though Elizabeth's condition was improving, Jackie's health was growing far worse. He was spending more days in bed more and more, too sick and sore to even move. His skin glistened with sweat as he laid on his bed, limp. Even though he was suffering from less nosebleeds, the gums in his mouth would sometimes burst out with blood, and it would trickle from the sides of his lips as he slept with his mouth open.

The final turning point was about five weeks ago, when Will came back. Elizabeth, now cured of melancholy, took him to the cliffs to watch the sun set, like in the old times. Jackie tagged along with them. Fortunately, he was having a good day with his illness, which was rare nowadays. They returned about fifteen minutes after the sun had set, and everyone and everything was in good spirits.

The next morning, however, was a yet another sudden blow for all of us. I walked in, hoping that Jackie would join us for breakfast. Instead, I saw only Elizabeth sitting by the fire, holding Will so tightly, it was a miracle he could even breathe. I began to worry immediately. "Bess?" I said loudly.

She turned her head. Her face was pale, and she looked visibly shaken, as if someone had struck her across the face. I felt my heart skip a beat as I asked, "What's happened to Jackie?"

She looked down and shook her head. "Gibbs is upstairs, taking care of him," she said quietly, a tremble in her voice. "He's gotten worse."

Worse? Worse?

"How could it be?" I said with disbelief, stepping back. I know I wouldn't get an answer out of her; no one knew how he had possibly gotten worse. I turned and hurried upstairs, literally stomping on the wooden steps.

Gibbs was leaning over Jackie, his pocket watch in his left hand and his right hand enclosed around Jackie's wrist. An unused bucket and bleeding bowl laid next to them. Gibbs let out a sigh, let go of Jackie's wrist and placed the watch back in his pocket. He turned to me and shook his head.

"He has a fever, and his pulse is racing," he said to me ruefully. He bent down and grabbed the bucket and the bleeding bowl. He turned back to me, looking greatly saddened. I shook my head. No. No. This could not be happening to Jackie. Not yet.

"I'm afraid it's his time," continued Gibbs. "We need nature to take its course, Teague."

"But-" I said, but he cut in, "'But' won't do us any good this time, Captain."

He left without another sound. I gritted my teeth and turned to Jackie. He laid in his bed, panting, his eyes closed tightly. The red bandanna that was usually wrapped around his forehead laid next to him on the night-stand, folded up neatly by a bowl of water. I walked by his bedside and picked up the rag in it and tried to wipe his face. He squeezed his eyes shut even more and moaned.

"Not now, Dad," he whispered, slumping a little to the left.

"I want to help. You feel like fire," I scolded him, despite myself.

"But Dad-" Jackie moaned, but I turned his face towards me with my one hand and wiped his face off with the soaking rag. He put his thin hand on my wrist and weakly pushed it away, opening his dull, dull brown eyes just a sliver.

"Not now Dad," he whispered again. "Not now."