Picture Perfect

Chapter 31- Part 2

Time at home for the now extended Dalton family rapidly becomes even more stressful, exhausting the entire family to the maximum extent. Cora's presentation of feigned happiness isn't as impregnable as she had initially thought; Andrew can almost clearly see right through her performance. He keeps a watchful eye upon her, carefully observing and assessing her movements as if preparing to catch her should she fall. There's a heaviness in his heart as he watches the woman he loves struggle so profoundly to find happiness in what should be a momentous and joyous time in their lives together. It isn't long before Cora's mask fractures, the pieces crumbling away completely, and her displeasure and overall woe are revealed to Andrew. The barrier formerly placed around Cora's true feelings becomes more and more translucent, growing in transparency and exposing every deeply-rooted doubt, irrational fear, and tormenting headache. Andrew spends as much time as he can with his wife and son, but Cora's obvious lack of bonding with the baby worries him considerably.

Cora couldn't possibly know what he's done, could she? It must be the residual trauma of Maria's depraved actions that are causing Cora's detachment from both himself and Gideon. His wife's uncontainable and not easily suppressed grief wreaks havoc on Andrew's mental health, provoking his already present insecurities to develop further. While he could never lay blame for this upon Cora, he can't seem to accept the responsibility of his own contribution to his madness. The destruction is gradual but remains ever-present, prominently displaying itself in the forefront of every expected but not quite received joy of new parenthood. Days go by, and without even a scant improvement to Cora's condition, Andrew grows increasingly wearier. His nightmares return with a vengeance, stimulating a mental breakdown with absolutely no possibility of prevention.

You're a screw-up, Andrew. You can't do anything right.

I knew you'd never amount to anything; I'd been right all along.

This is what you deserve. You'll never achieve happiness because you're not worthy. You're not worth anything.

This is all you're fault.

The harsh and irrepressible statements of his father echo in his head, replicating themselves repeatedly until Andrew is on the brink of insanity. They reverberate through his memories, resonating through his body, penetrating his already punctured soul. They grasp him tightly, squeezing him, wringing the life right out of him.

They destroy him, demolishing every fiber of peace and happiness he thought he had, every semblance of perfection he strived for. They steal away every ounce of goodness that had once filled his life, leaving behind an unwelcome, consuming emptiness that Andrew can't seem to shake.

Andrew sits on the floor of the bathroom, his back pressed against the cool wall tiles and his legs pulled up to his chest. He holds his knees tightly, his arms securing them firmly against his upper body. A deep inhale rattles through his lungs, staggering through his entire being. His chest inflates and halts, the air refusing to discharge itself. He's forgotten how to breathe. Seconds tick by, and Andrew's face flushes, filling with heat. His brain screams at him to exhale, and his lungs screech for oxygen, but he can't seem to force his body to cooperate. Spots dance across his vision, eclipsing his sight until blackness takes over. Andrew convulses on the floor violently; his arms spasm, thrusting themselves outward. His fingers extend and strain, scrambling for purchase, for something to hold onto. Something to level him. To ground him.

To save him.

Progressively, the thrashing ceases, eventually diminishing into an inconsiderable twitch. Andrew gasps, his airway sucking in a large gulp of air, attempting to finally fill his lungs. His entire body aches from the strenuous movements, his muscles throbbing and crying for some form of relief. His lungs plead for more and more, and he finds himself wheezing, his ragged pants seeming insufficient to sustain him. Andrew's eyes sting with a fresh deluge of tears, and the blackness remains around the edges of his vision. His mind admonishes him for his body's failure to do the simplest of actions. How could someone be so inadequate at breathing?

The happenings to his body are blaring and thunderous, roaring in his mind and threatening to rupture his eardrums. But none of it is louder than the pain in his heart.

Curling into the fetal position, Andrew shuts off his mind and focuses on breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat. Again and again. He isn't sure how long he lays there on the bathroom floor, but it's of no consequence to him; Cora hasn't come looking for him, and Gideon hasn't made a single peep since he regained his awareness. Besides his unforeseen and shocking breakdown, the house is still and calm, as it should be. An almost insignificant niggling of relief worms its way into him at the thought.

Carefully, Andrew rises to his feet, testing his ability to support himself on unsteady legs. Taking a look in the mirror, Andrew's heart lurches into his throat. He's assuredly a mess. With a sigh, he undresses, climbing into the barren shower before turning the water on full blast. It's cold when it hits his skin, but Andrew doesn't flinch, the icy temperature soothing his tired body. He stares into the raining droplets, losing himself in the pitter-pattering rhythm. The water gradually becomes warmer, eventually causing steam to rise up and cloud the shower stall. Andrew welcomes it in a similar fashion, allowing the cascading water to continue its assault on his body as he stands perfectly still, and his prior panic washes down the drain.

"Andrew?" Cora's voice calls from the bedroom, stealing him away from the relaxing moment.

Shutting off the shower, Andrew returns to the present. "I'll be right out," he replies, wrapping a towel around his waist. Determinedly, he shoves all thoughts aside and exits the bathroom, intent on being present for his wife; she is, after all, his first priority.