𝐏𝐔𝐃𝐃𝐋𝐄𝐒 | ✍︎︎

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝟰𝟱

I take a deep breath, trying to restrain myself from knocking this doctor out. My "girlfriends" father.

I don't know when he became a surgeon, how, or why but I know I do not want him on our case.

And thank whoever's up there for August Dibello because if he hadn't intervened after I threw that punch when Dr.Kingsley was telling Clailea to get off of Zaras bed in such a patronizing way that I felt terrible.

Now, sitting once more in an uncomfortable hospital chair my leg bounces uncontrollably. I've never really ever been the worrier in our family. I'm more of the why overthink so much you don't even get to experience it kind of guy.

But now, in the hospital waiting not very patiently to see if my brother is going to live or not, I think I have the right to be at least a little nervous.

Though, I'm trying not to be. I know my lame attempts at trying to hide the utter fear I feel ripping apart my chest is futile, but I will continue to try anyway.

Ezrah, now drooling on Adonis' shoulder instead of mine, has been sleeping none stop. It's worrying me, knowing that many people use that as an escape. It's the closest thing they can get to dying.

The little boy Adonis had been trying to console ended up being one of the doctors kids, why he was left alone in the hospital is beyond me. Though, I assume he had run away from his mom because when she found him the most relief I've ever seen in someone washed over her face.

It made me wish my mother, not the one who gave birth to me or lived in my home. Not the one who took my little sister away from us, and certainly not the one who abused her.

I miss the mother I never had. The one that would hold you and coddle you over the stupidest things, patch your wounds after falling off of your bike. The one who would make dinner every night and make you finish your plate or else you don't get desert.

I miss the mother that was never in my life, and that's strange because how can you miss someone you've never met?

Maybe more of longing, I long to have the feeling of a motherly bond, and I know I will never have it. Because now, the closest thing I have to it might die.

My mother, Fiona Del Rosario, now known as Fiona Collymore was never a mother to me.

No matter how hard she had tried at first, really tried to be the mother she had seen on television or read in books, she never could be.

And I wish I could accept that fact, I wish I could be proud of her for trying, happy she took the time to. But really, I can't.

How am I supposed to endure any ounce of appreciativeness when her trying only hurt me more.

It would get my hopes up, fill me with false hope, only for her to shun me away and go back to her old self because it was more comfortable for her. More convenient for her to eschew her own children like it was nothing.