7
The days pass. I stay in my room most of the time. The anger from the dinner night has left me, only having my focus stay put on the self-hatred I hold inside. I no longer mourn for myself, how miserable and pathetic I must be for not being included with everybody else. Instead, I mourn for Rudy, for the power known as comatose has snatched her into its gnarly hands.
Thinking of the word "coma" leaves a sour taste in my mouth. Simply thinking of Rudy gives me a headache. But, like Brody said, she's all that I can think about. She's all I can talk about. Somehow, I feel as if the young teenager is right about me. My consciousness and doubt, however, refuse to believe it.
Whatever the case is, I know that I cannot face Rudy. Not when I know that she may never wake up ever again.
I lay curled up in my bed, my eyes fluttering like the weak wings of a butterfly. I haven't slept since that night at the Denbraks, and I badly want to. But I know that my nightmares will haunt me once more, and I will wake up in a cold sweat, worse than ever before. Besides, trying to sleep is already disturbing on its own, for it reminds me of being in comatose. Just like Rudy.
There are trails of tear marks against my face, causing the pillow to be damp. They're from yesterday. My hands are brittle as they wrap around my blanket, the feeling of something soft keeping me from diving into despair. It's so delicate. So calming. It doesn't distract me completely, unfortunately. A suicidal cloud looms above my head, dragging me down. It's so easy yet to hard to try and get up, and it's because I can get up, but I just don't want to.
Perhaps this is how Rudy feels right now, locked down in the hospital. The only difference is that she doesn't know she can't get up on her own. I'm sure that I was the last face she saw before passing out. Thinking about it gives me a surge of guilt.
Exhausted, I sit up against the bed's frame, tugging a bit at the roots of my hair. There isn't anything I want to do besides stay in the house and sulk like the miserable man I am. I don't even want to be here anymore. That voice inside of me hisses, Coward. You can't even see your own daughter. And that voice is right, because I'm too afraid to even step outside.
I groan to myself. What the hell is wrong with me?
My feet weakly settle onto the floor, and I force myself to stand up. My knees nearly buckle. As expected. I feel like a walking corpse as I drag my numb body over to the bathroom, tiredly sauntering inside and facing the cursed mirror. And to my surprise, I look even worse than before.
The dark circles around my eyes look like raw bruises, and my eyelids are droopy and heavy. My eyes themselves have red veins striking through them from my deprive of sleep. My hair is like a small nest of black twigs and leaves. I feel like I'm dead. It's all I've ever wanted, anyway.
Why don't I want to shapeshift out of this form? It's irritating. I hate pretending to be a human when I'm nothing near one. I will never be a human. I will never fit in with the people around me. No matter how much attention I want or how much I want for someone to just notice how I'm feeling, they just won't get it. Nobody will.
Except Rudy. But she's practically gone now.
I stare at the bandage around my neck. It's soaked with black blood. I slowly take off my jacket, the one that I've kept on since that one night. My arms are coiled with gauze, poisonous snakes wrapping around me. I can barely move without feeling stiff and trapped in my own little prison. I feel miserable. I feel gross and absolutely sick. Dirty. Vile. Disgusting.
No wonder why nobody wants to be around me.
Morose with fatigue, I decide that it's best for me to at least do something. Change my bandages. That would, hopefully, make me feel better.
Minutes later, the sticky bandages have peeled from my skin, caked with oily blood and piled all over the kitchen table. They sit right next to Rudy's damn hoodie, which is still hanging over the back of one of the chairs. I stare at it for only a moment before tugging my focus back onto my wounds, then the roll of gauze next to me. I don't know if I even want to take care of myself. I'd rather have someone else do it for me. It doesn't even feel the same when I do it, because I know that nobody cares enough to come and visit.
Slowly and reluctantly, I wrap my wounds, loosely at first before giving each wrap a rough tug. It gives pressure onto my arms, adding just a little bit of soreness and smarting the injuries that are already there. Again and again the gauze twirls until my skin is covered with pasty white cloth.
For the one on my neck, I look into the shiny kitchen counter and spot it in my reflection. It's ugly. Torn and slashed. I wrap gauze around it tightly, making sharp tugs to feel the pressure in my throat, that feeling of suffocation at least giving me a bit of relief. All of this pain comforts me when Rudy isn't here, and that's simply because I wouldn't be able to handle seeing her sleeping peacefully on her bed.
How many times have I said that I miss her? I'm growing tired just hearing myself whine about it. Maybe I should mourn over her damn hoodie instead.
I slide down from the kitchen chair and move to the living room, aiming to at least lie down again in peace. But the moment I flop down on the couch, I hear a terrible, irritating knock, knock, knock. I groan in frustration and bury my face into the nearest pillow, nails scraping against my skull.
"Go away," I grumble to myself, my head beginning to thump and my scars starting to tingle.
Knock, knock, knock! the door yells at me again, the migraine in my head storming in a chaotic cycle. I feel my nails digging into my skin, my teeth clenching. I just want to be alone.
Knock, knock, knock! I can feel myself crumbling, and my entire body is on fire. "I said go away!" I roar. It's impossible to tell if I'm talking to the person outside or to the voices inside my head.
Whether they heard me or not, the knocking stops. I huff out an irritated sigh. What bastard wants to disturb a man like me?
I run my hands through my hair, tugging at the roots again. I'm almost try and actually tug a strand out when I hear a loud thump from outside. I veer up from where I'm laying. Slowly, I guide myself to the door, peeking through the curtains to see if anybody is there. Nobody.
Reluctantly, I open the door. My eyes dart around. Is this some kind of trick? Then I realize what is resting at my feet. It's a small cardboard box. I look at my surroundings again. There isn't anybody I can see, nor anything unfamiliar that I can sense. "Hello?" I call, coughing a bit from my raspy voice. "Anybody there?"
Nobody responds.
I bend down and pick up the box. Then I slowly back away, drawing into the safety of the house once more.
The box feels oddly warm as I sit on the couch, placing it on my lap gently. There are no proper labels attached to it. But there is a sticker that hangs on top, reading, FROM: BRODY RIGGS. TO: ORMAD MANNIGLOOM.
I scoff out aloud. What is this? Some sort of apology? That little shit would be the last person to say sorry to me in a genuine manner. I drag a finger across the base of the box, reading those words again. FROM: BRODY RIGGS. Goddamn. I can't understand how that could possibly be real.
With a crack, a black claw pops out of my human disguise, and I tear the box open, tracing each crease inside of it until it blooms open like a flower. I expect to see a pathetic little note with pathetic little handwriting, one that belongs to a feisty teen who can't control his selfish words. That would make sense, anyway. Brody's got a dirty mouth.
What I find instead is something fluffy. Something dark and covered with cloth. My lips curl into a confused frown as I narrow my eyes at it, trying to see what it is, but it's impossible to really tell inside the box. So I take it out.
It's a . . . bird. Or at least a plush of one. It has dark feathers and a large beak, holding wide purple eyes and large wings that are tucked against its body. My suddenly tense grip turns into something gentle and delicate. There is a torn seam around its neck, cotton puffing out of it. My confusion increases until I realize that I'm the one who caused that tear with my claw. The fact that it's near the neck makes me . . . uneasy.
As I did expect, there is a note at the very bottom. I pick it up. And as I thought it would, it has messy, untidy handwriting, one that belongs to none other than Brody Riggs. I try to cling onto the anger from before, but as I begin to read, it slowly slips from my weak, haggard grasp.
Hi Ormad.
This is Brody. I'm sorry for what I said. I just got really angry and I guess I just shouted all of that out. But I didn't mean any of it. I still think you should think a bit of what I've said, though. I really feel like you should. No offense. I miss having you talk to me.
Anyway, here's something Rudy and I were working on together for you. It's a crow. Or a raven, I don't know. Something. It was supposed to have a top hat and a bowtie, but Rudy . . . you know. I didn't want to finish it without her because it felt wrong. So I decided to give it to you. I hope it makes you feel better. I think Rudy named it Mr. Gloom or something. I don't know where that came from.
I'm still sorry for what I said. I don't really want you to forgive me, but I'm still sorry. But can you please spend more time with me? I want to talk to you some more. I want a good dad. Please?
Love,
Brody
I read the last words over and over again. I want a good dad. Please? Then again. A good dad. And again. Good dad. My thumbs caress the fluffy texture of the stuffed animal. Its bulging purple eyes stare back at me as if it is expecting me to tend to it. Cotton lightly falls out of it and onto my knee.
So someone has finally admitted that I am not a good enough father. Not to Rudy, but to all the other children around her. Her friends. All the attention is always directed to her, Brody says. Nobody else.
But is it something that I should really be ashamed of? She's my daughter. My own child. Everybody else has their own families to care for them. I can't just go around saying "I love you" to all of them all the time, because they already know deep down that I care for them.
Then again, I haven't been paying much attention to the other kids and their well-beings at all, have I?
The tear in the bird's neck seems to be gaping. I pick a bit of cotton from inside. It's rough and dusty from having been worked on for quite a long time. It feels ancient, like an artifact that I should be leaving alone. But I can't leave it alone. Rudy - and Brody - made it for me.
I stand up with the bird in my arms, walking into the hallway and into my own bedroom again. Only this time I don't stop and lay down. I go to one of the drawers and pick out a needle and string, and despite the sharpness of the needle tempting me to do great harm, I take a deep breath and tell myself that I don't need to do it. I need to be a good father.
So instead, I sew the torn seam across the bird's neck, my moves delicate and gentle like they should be.
The bird sits at the corner of the couch, unmoving and completely still. Rudy's hoodie is draped next to it. Whenever I glance at the two items, a warm feeling spreads throughout my stomach. A good one. They almost seem to correspond with each other, the bird with purples and blacks and the hoodie with light greys and pinks. It reminds me of Rudy and myself. The ache in my head returns.
So that's why I'm attempting to dull it out. I pop open the lid of the bottle and take a long, satisfying sip from it. I'm not planning to get as drunk as I was a few days ago, but I'd at least like to get a little bit tipsy. It makes me feel better, anyway.
My tongue is overcome with bitterness as I let the bottle clink back down onto the kitchen table. My eyes roll around the room, searching for objects that could potentially soothe me. Then I spot one. A fork. I take it immediately, snatching it. I press the prongs against my fingers, feeling the pressure weigh down on my skin. I press harder. It's like my nails are about to snap right off.
I pull the fork away, staring at the little marks its metal teeth left behind. The movements go from my fingers to my entire hand. Dotting, dotting, dotting. It's like I'm decorating myself, making a display to marvel at. Dull dots are on my palms and knuckles, and everything's starting to grow numb. Then I move onto the other hand. I'm not hurting myself. It does not count. It's simply making myself feel better. I'm getting better. This is self care, right? Right? It must be. I am a good father. I am a good father.
Another sip. I don't feel too drunk yet. My focus is slipping slightly, my hands no longer tense as the ache dulls from my head. I'm getting better. This is self care. I am a great father. I start to dot my wrists, pushing the prongs along the veins that pop out from them. What's the big deal? What am I thinking about, again? Sleep. Warmth. Touch. That little bird. I want them all.
Another sip. I count the seconds this time, looking up at the ceiling. One, two, three. It's not too bad. I'm not too bad. I'm not a bad father at all. I'm an amazing father. Look at what I'm doing to myself. It's what I deserve. The prongs dot into me over and over again. This is self care? This is self care? God, how disgusting and bitter I suddenly feel!
No wonder why Rudy isn't here with me! What would she say? She'd scold me and say, "I thought we agreed that you wouldn't be drinking anymore." And I'd respond with, "But it's what I need. It's saving myself from the monster in my head. You should lock me up, Ratgirl, and you can keep the key. It'll be a sweet little souvenir. And when I finally get better, when I finally become the father you need, you can take me back out!"
She'll take care of me. And she wouldn't get hurt at all. The poor little child. When will she get the father she wants? Ah, but it'll take time. We both need patience. I will heal someday. I will heal eventually.
My arms are filled with little dents and dots. I take another sip of the bottle. I'm already around halfway done with it since I'm drinking much slower than before. I feel proud. No, I feel pathetic. But is this the right thing? Is it? No, it's nothing close to it. But Rudy isn't here to tell you what's right and what's wrong, anyway . . .
Through my muddy ears, I hear a knock. Twice. It would've struck a pang of annoyance in me if I weren't so inebriated. Swaying a bit, my shoulders heavy, I sit up from one of the kitchen chairs and trudge to the front door. Without even looking to see who it is, I immediately open up the door, my dotted hands gripping at the doorway.
It's Faith. Sweet, hopeful Faith. I manage a weak, wavering smile. "Hi, Faith," I croak.
She almost looks shocked. Or is she astonished? Is there a difference? With the mixed up thoughts in my cloudy head, it's merely impossible to tell. Her chocolate eyes swarm with something of concern, and I don't really know why.
"You're drunk," she says aloud blankly.
"Yes," I confirm. "But . . . not as much as last time."
"You still look terrible."
I wearily blink, barely bringing up my head to look at her. "I always do."
Faith lets out a sigh, looking around. She puts a gentle hand on my chest, her other on my shoulder. "Dangit, Ormad," she mutters as she pushes me back into the house.
As the door closes with a click! I let her guide me to the couch, in which she forces me to sit down. I watch her stride around the kitchen counter. Her eyes narrow at the lonely fork, completely ignoring the bottle of alcohol standing right next to it. I feel the smile slowly wipe from my face, odium suddenly spreading into my throat and chest. Why isn't she happy? I'm doing better than I was last time. I'm not directly hurting myself. Can someone acknowledge me for once? Face-to-face? Genuinely?
I mumble little words that even I can't comprehend, thinking about the art on my arms and the my bitter tongue. I poke the dots on my hands and arms with my nails, claws slowly sprouting out to replace them. Soon, my human form begins to shrivel away like ash, revealing who I truly am underneath. But I don't feel ashamed of it because I can't think clearly, and because I can't think clearly, I don't care.
"This is just your first bottle, right?" Faith asks me.
"Of course," I reply hoarsely. "I haven't even finished it."
I hear her sigh as she strides in front of me, staring into my twitchy purple eyes. Her brow furrows and her lips tighten. I pull my sleeves up, wanting her to stare at what I've done to myself.
She notices, and her lips curl into a frown. "Did you hurt yourself again? Let me see-"
"I didn't hurt myself," I calmly tell her. "I just made myself feel better."
Her warm hands turn my arms back and forth, rotating them to look at the small dents. Some of them are beginning to fade away, unfortunately. Faith gazes back to the fork on the kitchen counter, then back at me. Her eyes are strangely shiny as she gulps a lump down her throat. Gently, she rubs my shoulder, whispering, "Stay here. I'll be right back."
I watch her figure shrink and grow again as she returns with a blanket. I recognize it; it's from my very own bed. Faith wraps it around me like I'm a coddled child, pushing my face into the soft cloth. My vision becomes a bit blurry upon the sudden movement, but I don't fight back, for I don't have the strength to. Where's the bottle? I should have another sip or two. The ache in my head is still very much there . . .
Faith sits next to me, her shoulder nudging against me. Silence coils around her. I pull my arm from the protection of the blanket, heaviness beginning to drag down on it. "Look at what I've done," I say drowsily. "I'm taking care of myself."
"You are not," she snaps like a whip. "You're drunk, Ormad, and you're almost hurting yourself. That fork could've cut you open if you went any longer with it."
"But it's not as bad as before."
She huffs out a sigh, crossing an arm and massaging one of her temples. "Ormad, why do you have to worry me so much? And why do you have alcohol with you? I thought you said that you stopped drinking some time ago."
I mutter more incomprehensible words underneath my breath. "It's tempting. And she's not here to stop me."
"Oh god, Ormad, stop having the excuses be on Rudy!" Faith exclaims. "She never caused anything! And you can take care of yourself without her!"
I flinch from the sharpness of her tone, curling up into the blanket. My arm sticks out limply. The dots are still there - dull but noticeable. Faith's eyes are like chunks of burning coal. I have never seen her so suddenly irritated before.
Slowly, I turn my head away, staring at the ground and searching for more objects that could potentially be sharp enough to leave an impact. There is none. "She helps me focus," I mumble. "I miss her."
Faith's gaze softens a little bit in my muddy eyes, but she doesn't apologize, nor does she continue to lash out. Instead, she takes my hand and pushes it back into the safety of the warm blanket. "I'll get you some water," she mutters, standing up once more.
I feel my eyes flutter, my body begging to shut down and sleep. But I won't allow myself to. The urge to drink, drink, drink more alcohol comes crawling into my gut, for just a few sips isn't enough. I don't care how toxic it is or how much it could hurt me tomorrow. I want it now.
But Faith comes back with a cup of water instead. She sits close to me, raising the cup to my lips and having a hand gently pushed against the back of my head, tilting my chin upwards. Left with no other choice, I drink it, even if it's not the bitter-tasting, poisonous fluid that I want.
We sit in silence for the next few minutes. The warmth of Faith's arm next to me brushes against my shoulder, ticking like a clock inside my head. How it drives me insane. I want that warmth to drown me and wrap me all up until I can't even breathe. I need that warmth. I need the feeling of someone noticing me, touching me, loving me. But Faith won't hold my hand and caress my face because she already has someone else.
She looks like someone I've fallen in love with before. Someone nobody else knows about. Her eyes remind me of his; her hair is puffy and black, just like his. Suddenly, her eyes seem to fade to gold and her features seemingly shift, and her voice becomes low and smooth. "When am I going to see you again?" my lover says.
Then I blink, shaking my head of the hallucination. No. That isn't him. That is Faith. What I thought was someone who I loved so dearly in the past is just a recurring friend. I'm going crazy.
"Ormad?" Faith asks.
I dart my gaze at her, eyelids fluttering. "Hm?"
"Did you hear me? When are you going to see her again?"
Of course, the word him differs from her. Him means someone else, a handsome, lovely man that I have held on to so dearly in the past. He's far gone. Her means Rudy, my child, my daughter, my little girl. Nobody talks about either of them when I want to. So what's the point of talking about them now when there's only concern?
When I don't answer, Faith's expression softens, melting like caramel. He liked caramel. Why can't he be here with me? I'd feel much better. Then Faith wouldn't have to waste her time sitting next to such a miserable pile of garbage.
"You should see her," Faith insists. "She'd want to see you."
"No, she wouldn't."
"What do you mean?"
"She hates me. She's . . . She has always hated me."
"Oh, no she doesn't." Faith shakes her head, forcing a smile on her face. It wavers greatly. "Rudy loves you. She wants to be just like you."
I groan, tilting my head upwards. "Why?"
"Because you care for her," Faith answers. "And she cares for you."
"She just puts up with me," I mutter. "I'm irritating to her." The dots on my hands can barely be seen now, almost like phantoms on my grey skin. I begin poking them again with my claw. "She's only a kid, she- she doesn't want to deal with me. Goddamnit, she doesn't want me to be her 'father.'"
Faith shakes her head again. "That's not true-"
"Look at me, Faith!" I snap. I feel my teeth click together, razors scraping against each other. "Look at me! Do you think Rudy genuinely wants to deal with a drunkard? A lunatic? A-" My voice shakes on the last word. "A monster?"
"You're . . . not a monster, Ormad," Faith tells me, frowning.
"Don't lie to me like that," I hiss through clenched teeth. "I am one, whether you believe in it or not. I'm a Negative. The Boogeyman of all things! Do you know how many people I have hurt over the years? Do you know how much I have hurt myself over the years? God, Faith, you don't know!"
"I do know, Ormad."
"You don't understand!" I cry out, tugging at my hair. My stomach churns in a sickly storm. Give me back that bottle. I need it. "What if I hurt her? I'm such an emotional wreck. I-" My breath shakes. I need that fork again. I'll stab myself this time. I promise, I promise, I promise. "-I don't know what I could do to her."
Faith puts her hand on my own. Like everybody else's, her hand is warm. Soft. Gentle and human. Always different from mine. "You won't do anything to her, Ormad. You love her, don't you? You can't hurt her in any way."
I feel myself shrink into my shell, closer and closer until I'm nothing but a part of the void. Faith is wrong. I can hurt Rudy. I can because I'm out of control, a dark speck of all negativity and chaos. What ways could I do it? Kill her slowly, the power of my own depression and mourning tearing her mind apart? Let her slip out of my grip again? Become blinded by my desperation and greed for attention and let her go into this cruel world?
Why? Why do I think of such things?
"I can," I whisper shakily. "I can hurt her." My claws begin to scratch my palms, back and forth and causing my skin to tingle. "I am a monster. She- Sh-She's just-" I swallow a lump down my throat. I suddenly begin to regret having a few gulps of alcohol. It makes me so vulnerable. "She's just a child. M-My child. I can't t-take care of her forever."
As my body begins to burn with old scars, I force my struggling, shaking hands over my mouth to stop me from speaking any longer. I don't want to hear myself anymore. God, how does Rudy put up with my voice? How does she put up with my words? I begin to gnaw anxiously on my claws. There's something wrong with me. Please let it be the alcohol. Please don't let it be what's inside my head, these scary, frightening thoughts. What was I even thinking about these past few minutes?
It's about the people I've lost, isn't it? The man I hallucinated onto Faith, how his golden eyes shimmered like the sun. How I just want him again. His warmth, his smile, his love. But nobody has heard of him. I'm far too afraid to express my memories. A fragile glass I am, dark and cold but easy to break on the right angle and right time.
Then there's Rudy. Poor, precious Rudy. My little girl. Ratgirl. I talk about her too much and I think about her too much. I worry about things I don't need to even pay attention to. I protect her when she can fend for herself. Brody was right before; I am obsessed with Rudy. I am obsessed with her because I am terrified of losing her.
I don't want her to end up like the man I loved so long ago, the one that nobody knows about because I only think about him when I'm in the slightest stages of being drunk. Because that was what we did together. We drank. We drank and drank and made little jokes and held hands. But I never showed him who I really was, who the Boogeyman was, because he was too innocent. His eyes were too golden. His smile was too pure. I couldn't ruin it no matter how much I wanted to relieve myself of my anxiety.
I'm selfish. I'm terrible. I'm wicked. I'm nothing close to being a good father.
As I internally writhe and lash out at myself inside my head, Faith stays silent. She's staring at me. I refuse to look back into her eyes, for I don't want to mistake them as beams of gold. She doesn't have those eyes. She has her own. But I can't hold back that urge to look at her again, and my hallucinative instincts tell me that I'm an unstable, broken man.
Slowly, Faith lets out a long sigh, sounding like the winds of change. Then she takes my hand. She runs her fingers gently over my own, staring at the bruises and ghosts of the dots on my knuckles. Then, almost playfully, she taps her nail against my claw. Gently. Motherly. Welcomingly.
"You're right," she tells me quietly. The irritation from before has slipped out completely from her voice, the warmth from a few days ago beginning to seep in again. "You can't take care of her forever. She has to grow up eventually. She's . . . human."
"I'll be left alone again," I mumble. "Nobody will love me."
Faith's expression softens. She runs her thumb into my palm, making little circles with it. The sensation feels soothing, somehow. "What about Winsome? He'll be alive and well with you. He's immortal, like you."
"But he can still die," I insist. The isolation of the future begins to wrap around me, choking me. "He's a demon. He could get exorcised."
"He's lived for tons of years, Ormad. He won't get into any trouble. He's good at getting out of-"
"He can still die." My hand turns to a fist in her gentle grasp. "It's possible that he can die, he- I'll be left alone, I-I-"
"Don't think about the negative things," Faith says quietly. "You can't be thinking of that stuff all the time. That's why you worry so much. That's why you're afraid. You keep expecting the things that might not even happen. You keep expecting the worst."
What else can I think about? I'm negativity itself, the embodiment of literally the worst of the worst. I swallow a lump down my throat, refusing to look back into Faith's eyes. I don't want to see him again.
"It always happens," I murmur. "I always get things taken away from me."
Slowly, Faith takes her hand and tilts my chin towards her. My eyes are beginning to get dewy, the tears building up dangerously. But I won't let them fall. I've cried too many times in just one week.
"Hey." Faith squeezes my hand. "Look at what you have. You haven't lost anything."
"I lost Rudy," I choke.
"No, you didn't. She's still okay. She's still alright. Listen to me."
"I'll lose her soon . . ." I whisper.
"No, you won't. She's a strong girl. Ormad, listen to me. She will make it through. She'll wake up. I promise."
My hand shakes in hers, and my jaw clenches. Would Rudy even want to wake up? Would she want to see the face of her father? A pathetic man who can't even quench his loneliness? I search for the answer in Faith's face, but all I see is a wicked reminder of another person I've loved.
Faith gently caresses my face. The warmth seeps through me. How familiar this feels. All my energy leaves me, and I reluctantly lean into her hand, listening to her speak.
"Look at what you have," she cooes. "Look at how far you've come. You have people who love you. And it doesn't matter what will happen to them because they're still with you now. Don't mope about what will happen to them in the future." Both of her hands cup my face. "You're going to be missing them every single day if you keep on sulking."
Faith sits closer to me. "You have so much time to spend with everybody. You have endless chances. You're not like anybody else I've seen. You don't have to make worries for things that may never even happen."
"But they will happen," I weakly protest. "And-"
"I know. Things will happen to the people you love. To all of us. You can't predict what will happen or when it happens. But that doesn't matter. You still have time with everybody around you." She tilts my head towards her as my eyes scroll down to my feet. "Don't waste that time thinking about other things."
The lump forms in my throat again, and as I gulp it down, a glob of a tear rolls down my cheek. My lip begins to quiver, a sob building in my chest. Don't cry. Don't cry.
Faith gives me a small smile, and as if reading my mind, she whispers, "Hey. It's okay to cry. Let it all out." One of her hands rests on the back of my head, gently pushing my face into her shoulder. That is when I finally break, letting out strained sobs and wetting her shirt with my tears.
Vulnerability. It's one of the many things I've despised about myself, because no matter how cold I want to make myself, I will always be an idiotic, ignorant bastard. A weak man. A pathetic excuse for a father. A pathetic excuse for a person. What stupid creature gets love like me? What piece of garbage has friends like me? What monster has family like me? Do I want this? This . . . love?
I don't know. I don't even know.
Faith runs her hands through my hair and and shoulders, whispering words of comfort in my ear. "It's okay," she keeps saying over and over again. "Let it all out."
I can barely reply through the hiccups and whimpers that escape me. "I-I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry," she solaces. "You did nothing wrong."
But I did. I left Rudy there, leaving her unconscious and asleep. What horrors haunt her there in that damn hospital? She'll never wake up.
But . . . I still got to spend time with her. She's still my little girl. My child, my daughter. She still has her warmth and her bold, arching personality implanted into her spine. The resoluteness packed into her attitude is still there. Rudy is still Rudy, no matter how much I whine and say that I miss her.
And it doesn't matter if she doesn't wake up ever again. I'll still be able to visit her whenever I want to. No harm will come to my little girl, even when she won't be able to speak to me. I know for a fact that she still remembers me and everything we've done together. We hold hands in the back of her head, laughing with the most earnest of joy.
She will still be there. She will still be with me. Just in a silent, distant manner. But I will remember her until the universe ends.
The sobs shake me, an ache growing inside my chest. It isn't long before I start to cling to Faith, my arms wrapping around her. Her warmth engulfs me, drowning me. I feel myself go limp. My vision slowly begins to darken, my head growing heavy and a sense of dizziness taking me over. Sleep is taking back control.
I fight it, turning my head weakly to look at Faith one last time. The projection of the man I've loved before appears again, perhaps for the last time.
"You . . . look like . . . Dominic," I mumble.
Faith blinks, giving me a little squeeze. "Hm?"
"Dominic," I repeat tiredly. "You . . . look like him . . ."
"Go to sleep, Ormad," Faith whispers. "You need rest."
I lean my face into her shoulder, letting out a quiet sigh. My eyes finally close, and all the strength in my body vanishes.
"Thank you," I manage to murmur before I pass out in her arms.