𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐌𝐏𝐇 || ʜᴀᴡᴋꜱ

51 ➟ In which a proposal is made.

   I've never liked hospital waiting rooms, I don't think anyone does. They're too sterile. It smells like nothing and your sense of time is ripped from you as the only obvious passing of time, are the doctors walking in and out of rooms- and even then, that's never an exact time.

So, I sit still, trying to count seconds before someone rushes past and I lose count and have to start all over again. When I'm sick of counting, I turn to repeating 'he's fine' in my head- sometimes out loud. Then I go back to counting again. Then 'he's fine'. Then counting. Then 'he's fine' and I can't stop. Not until someone finally walks out of his room.

It's a doctor. An older woman. She'd taken him in. Now she was leaving. To me, that was a problem. She was his surgeon. Why's the surgeon leaving the surgery room? Unless he's fine and the surgery's over. How long have they been in there? I don't know. It could have been hours or minutes or seconds. I couldn't tell and without realising it, I'm standing up. Looking straight into the eyes of the surgeon, my brain unable to formulate any words. So I'm just staring at her.

She stares back at me.

"Can I help you?"

I nod. I still can't say anything.

She repeated her question as if I hadn't heard it, but I had, I'd nodded- had she not seen me nod? "He's fine," I say it like a statement rather than a question. My brain is moving so fast it feels like I'm excruciatingly slow to do anything, almost like when you try to take a video of a flashing light, but the light doesn't even flicker when you play the recording back.

"He's fine," She nods, resting a hand on my shoulder. I tense, unsure why. Her grip is rigid like she's never done this before. But she's trying so who can fault her? "You'll be able to see him as soon as he's moved to a bed in the ICU."

"The ICU?" I repeat, "The Intensive Care Unit?" I say it like this isn't her job and she's never heard the abbreviation before.

She takes her hand off of me, clearing her throat, "Yes, he will be in a private room, as requested by the Commission."

"They called?"

"Uh, yes. They did," She answers awkwardly, "We'll move him and give you a room number. You're his mother, right?"

I nod without thinking. That's what I've been for the past few months, why not keep up the act if it means I can make sure he's alive? It's a stupid thought. Of course, he's alive. He's in the hospital. He's being moved to intensive care. You don't move someone to intensive care if they're dead. That's what the morgue is for.

I must've been staring blankly at the doctor for too long, as she just nods and says something that I don't quite catch. I'm not going to pretend I could make out any of it, there was this ringing in my ears that made it impossible to hear anything anymore. So I just sat back down and waited. Again.

This time, I counted the seconds perfectly. Waiting, if I was correct, 10 minutes and 34 seconds until there was some movement from the room.

The doors opened and a surgeon held the door open as the bed was pushed through. I stood up almost immediately. I could see him now. Lying on the bed. Asleep. Not dead. Asleep. One person pushed the bed, taking no note of me as they pushed it past, and round the corner. Apparently, I'd forgotten how to walk and only when it hit me did I rush after them, following them around 4 corners, up 2 floors on the elevator and 1 more corner, until they reached his room and pushed him inside. I followed them in. Nobody stopped me.

The room was dark and, only when I looked around did I notice that all the blinds had been preemptively pulled shut. Someone asked me a question, but it didn't register, I just said 'I'm his mum' and they let me be. At some point, they had all cleared out, and it was just me and the kid.