Journey To What Could've Been (coмιng ѕoon)

Prologue ❦

There are two gutting feelings that come along unprecedentedly in life.

One of them is sitting in an uncomfortable, plastic hospital chair. Waiting and expecting the worst about whatever situation has you set on such an uncomfortable piece of furniture, being surrounded by the gagging smell of antiseptics and something close to fear. The lady sitting next to me, Martha is snoring slightly after being consumed by sleep. She's been here for as long as I've been. Three days straight, not including my absence for a requested quick shower she offered me from the hotel room she paid for her and her two daughters. It's a two block walk from the Hospital, five minutes tops and I'd gone once since then. No more when I realized how thoughts seemed to breathe freely without any company, and I'd just end up crying underneath the shower nozzle for several minutes, trying to reach for the soap and breaking down. Besides, I liked Martha's company (If your even allowed to enjoy anything in the torturous chairs), it was the closest thing I had to Warren at the moment, and I received some sort of comfort in the familiar green-eyed gene mother and son possessed.

One of her daughters walked in the other day, crying and slumping down to her mother's lap. She was very beautiful like her Martha, and if Warren allowed me to say, just like him as well. Nina. She had flown from Cincinnati that very evening, her coat rumpled and her green eyes rounded with dark circles stained with tears. It made me wonder about my own appearance. Not a nice first sight to introduce myself as her son and brother's girlfriend.

I'd imagined this scenario millions of times in my head, walking up to the front porch, hand and hand to meet his mother. She would nod her head at me, give me a reassuring smile and then invite me inside for tea while her son squeezes my hand in relief. Now I notice comically how wrong I was about how life worked it's magic with me. Warren's mother and I met in the worst matters possible, and it wasn't his hand I was clutching for a grip, it was hers.

They were all I got to see these days, besides the shuffling doctors and nurses, making their way on their important daily job. That was until another Nina walked in after this morning's checkup. She had the same blonde hair, green gene and teary dark eyes because of the situation presented. Isla was a carbon copy of her sister, and couldn't even pinpoint the difference's besides the fact their different haircut's and selection of clothing. They sat on my right side as of this very moment, leaning against each other for strength, their hands intertwined and cheeks pressed together, visually reflecting like a mirror.

We all sit tight. Listening to the monotone noise that surrounds us, trying to hear beyond the door that constricts us from any news, any vital sound of a heartbeat we are desperately hoping for. This nice lady called Pat had come to inform us that the doctor's were monitoring Warren's heartbeat and checking the blood flow in his arteries. Looking for any new alternatives they could muster up to help his punctured heart before it gave up completely.

"Are they going to operate him again?" Nina, I think, asks.

"I don't know." I feel her mother shrug. "I'm not sure if this is anything we've encountered before. He might have to choose."

I hear a sniffle, and then. "We can't let him give up mom, he's always gone through with it."

Our hands are squeezed by her and my heart tightens. "I don't know if it matters whether there's an operation or not," A sniffle. "I don't know if he can choose his alternative this time around, Isla."

That's the other legitimate feeling that has been inserted into my life, the feeling of loss. Or the small dosage and foreplay of loss that will soon become a reality in the close future if life decides to destroy the last piece of happiness I managed to find in this desolated world.

In past times, I was unfortunate enough to deal with a terrible loss before, and being so close to watching death's hand work once again was all like a flashback to me. It felt deep and pungent into the flesh covering my heart, looking for an access point to find the way to my absolute possible destruction and in a way it was already starting to tear me down.