How to Paint Our Skies

How to Smell Death

Dear Fin,

    It's been three minutes since I finished my last letter to you. After I signed my name, I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. I'm so sorry for everything that has happened, I'm sorry that if you ever read this letter that you'll be reminded of your pain. But we need to talk about this, it needs to come out. It needs to happen.

    Let's begin.

    Continuation of Encounter Number Seventy-Two:

    Your mother arrived in tears.

    I had only met the woman who birthed you a handful of times, since she was busy working to support your family. She had your emerald green eyes, but her smile was shy and her hair was auburn and her features weren't quite as sharp. In personality, she was quiet and sweet and studious.

    I offered to drive, since neither of you seemed to capable. You had stopped crying, but I could see the numbness taking over you. In the back seat, your mother curled into your arms, sobbing her name again and again. You didn't react.

    We got to the hospital in record time, since I started speeding. I couldn't decide if I liked the hospital or not, it smelled like birth and death and hope and love and despair and agony. I wondered if you noticed the smell.

    Upon arriving, I let you two out so you could see her as fast as you could. I found a parking spot, before entering and approaching the front desk. The foyer of the hospital was chaotic, with people sitting in all sorts of places, waiting for care; many people sat around the main table, asking for room numbers and signing in.

    When it was finally my turn, I said to the older nurse, "Hi, I'm looking for Etta Erickson."

    She couldn't even look me in the eyes. "She's in the emergency room. Just pass the doors and keep going until you find the rest of your family."

    I thanked her before following her instructions. The emergency room smelled stronger of death and despair and agony, but also of hope. Hope lingered in my nose, such a strong scent it threatened to make me pass out.

    I found you and your mom, quickly.  You were sitting in chairs, holding hands, while a cop and a doctor had pulled up chairs in front of you two to speak. I could hear the quiet murmur from here, their voices echoing in the white hallways.

    ". . . blood alcohol level wasn't too high, but high enough . . ."

    " . . . swerved sharply to avoid hitting a car, she was flipped into a ditch . . ."

    ". . .  there wasn't much paramedics could do upon arrival . . ."

    "I'm sorry for your loss."

    I'm sorry for your loss.

    Etta Erickson was lost.

    But that wasn't . . . possible. I had seen her a few hours ago, she was completely fine! Happy, in fact, and so beautiful. Etta Erickson could not be dead. She had to be alive. If not just for me, but for you; you had lost enough people in your life. The doctors were wrong, they had to be. I refused to believe otherwise.

    Soon you spotted me. You arm was around your mother as she sobbed, curling into your chest. You, though . . . your eyes were blank, completely empty of emotion. The agony was so sharp you couldn't even feel it yet, which was the worst kind of pain. I blinked back the tears that hung in my lashes, before stepping towards you.

    And I knew they weren't wrong.

    She was gone.

    The doctor and the cop sat back, to give you two a moment, and they didn't seem to mind when I sat next to you on the floor. I grabbed your hand from you knee, kissing your knuckles. You looked at me for a moment, your eyes blank, before gripping my hand as hard as you possibly could. You gulped as the pain rose to a small sting.