Rising Sun (Book Two)

Twenty: Trying To Find Joy's Joy

***Peter's P. O. V.***

I wake up in the middle of the night to the sounds of muffled sobs and sniffles. I immediately sit bolt upright, scurrying off my cot to check on Joy. He's laying on his side, the blankets near his face. I can see him in the faint light, his entire face red and puffy from crying.

"Hey, what's the matter with you?!" I ask desperately, not trying to sound rude.

"Sorry," he whispers in a hoarse voice. "Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry."

"No, it's fine! Joy, please stop," I beg. "I don't want you to cry!"

He whimpers, his eyes squeezing shut. I sit closer to him on the bed, pulling his upper body up into my arms. I don't know what to say, so I'll just hold him. Actions speak louder than words anyway.

At first he resists my touch like always, ready to pull away at the first opportunity. Then he seems to exhaust himself from sobbing, so he melts into my touch. He lays one hand on my big belly, gently moving it back and forth as he calms down.

"Better?" I ask, pulling away to look at his face.

He nods. He rubs his eyes, still sniffling a bit.

"Now go to sleep," I instruct as kindly as possible. "I'll see you tomorrow."

~~~~~~~~~~

Joy wakes up bright and early the next morning. He seems motivated to get on with the day, which is surprising. I get dressed in the bathroom after washing by face and brushing my teeth. I mostly wear my pajamas all day, but today I spiced it up a little with sweatpants and a big t-shirt.

"Good morning, my love," I say, leaning over Joy's bed to kiss him.

He grabs my arm as I rise again. He clears his throat several times, swallowing like it's painful to do so.

"I-I," he begins, his voice even raspier than last night. "Am g-going to try t-to do b-b-better."

I smile brightly. It's nice to hear his voice again, even if it is rough sounding and cracks a lot.

"Good," I nod. "I'm so glad to hear it. Would you like some breakfast?"

He starts to nod, but then he decides to speak, "Um, y-yes, Peter."

All he gets is chicken broth, jello, and Gatorade. No one is sure how much food he'll be able to keep down after refusing food for so long, so his diet is limited.

A nurse spoons the soup into his mouth. He gulps it down obediently, making the same pained face as earlier when he swallows.

"You okay, hun?" the nurse asks kindly.

"Y-yes," he replies.

He gets maybe halfway through the soup when he complains of his stomach hurting. He retreats back into his damaged mind as we try to help him, curling up into a ball, wailing, and not letting anyone touch him. Come on, Joy! Get ahold of yourself! Please!

He finally throws up, which is kind of a relief. He snaps back into reality as he does so, apologizing to the nurse over and over and over.

"It's alright," she smiles. "This is my job, and trust me, this isn't the worst thing that's happened today."

"I want to leave," he whispers when she exits the room.

"Shush. Drink your water," I reply. I don't want to break the news to him that he won't be leaving anytime soon.

He listens to my words, chugging down his water. He didn't like the flavor of the Gatorade, so he's sticking to nature's purest beverage.

Suddenly, he looks very angry. He sits there fuming for awhile, and I'm almost scared to ask what's wrong. I'm trying to feel out the situation. Is he about to get violent again? He swings his legs over the side of the bed, rising unsteadily.