Hearts Of Gold h.s

Chapter 45

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Have you ever seen a body that looked so worn out, so exhausted, so.. abused by its owner? I know it's not the most uncommon thing to see someone's skin a sickly shade of yellow from alcohol abuse or sunken in cheekbones from neglect, but I've never seen it with my own eyes.

Well, until now.

He's laying there, his eyes closed and an oxygen tube wrapped behind his ears, distributing clean air into his nose. His face is much skinnier, but he just looks weak. His hair is completely grey now rather than a rich brown. His eyes are closed, but I imagine the brown irises are now rimmed with a pungent yellow. He has a shadow of a beard, but it just makes him look unwell and dirty more than anything. He looks sick. That's how he looks.

When we first walked in, the nurse told us that the accident caused damage to his ribs and lungs, which all in all was basically the final push on top of everything else wrong with his physical condition.

He's dying and there is absolutely nothing that can be done for him.

Harry asked if putting him on a transplant list was possible and the nurse had a somber look on her face when she said "we placed him on one, but he may not live long enough. It's unsure right now."

That's all they can do for him.

Apparently he's been in and out of consciousness due to the heavy drugs to keep him as comfortable as possible. They also said that he was quite disruptive when he was awake which sent my mind and body into a nervous state.

If he just stays asleep until Jackson gets here then everything will be fine. I won't have to face him alone.

When Jackson and I were kids, punishments were a lot more bearable if Jackson made the mess, or did something wrong with me. I got it a whole lot worse than Jackson, but for some reason, it wasn't as bad when it wasn't just my fault.

I mean, don't get me wrong he for sure drilled it into my head that it was always my fault, but once I was old enough to start picking up on the trends of when his reactions were worse than others, the conclusion I came to was that it wasn't as bad if Jackson was getting into trouble with me.

He got his phone taken for an hour though, I got a lot worse than that. That's where the differences really lay.

Harry and I were sitting on the small couch in his room, just waiting. Waiting for Jackson, waiting for any kind of change in his health, we were just waiting.

There wasn't much conversation between us because the conversation we genuinely needed couldn't be done in my dying father's hospital room. That wasn't going to happen, so we sat in silence. All I could hear was the steady beeping of the heart rate monitor and the commotion of nurses and doctors outside of the room.

The air is cold, but it's still so fucking stuffy in here. I feel congested and overwhelmed as if it's a hundred degrees, but the goosebumps on my arms say something a lot different.

It's been a painful hour just sitting here in this room, that is much too small for the emotions that could explode in here. 

I've just been sitting here and staring at him. Looking at the sick excuse of a man that is my father. I'm sitting here looking right at the root to every issue in my life. 

Well, every mental issue. 

Sometimes, I find myself wondering what life would be like if I was lucky enough to get a Dad that didn't hate me. I know I'd be a lot happier, but it's the 'what if's' that I really think about. What if my mom would have been more comfortable getting help for the cancer? What if she would have been alive right now. Maybe I'd be able to accept love a bit easier. Maybe I'd be living in New York, but would call my parents every time I got a compliment on my art work.