Fated Series. Book #2
"Be possessive of me, own me, keep me, because if you do then nothing and no one else can." - Maddox.
My name is Maddox Vallero, and I'm dead.
Well, that's not quite true. I'm alive in the breathing, walking, talking sense-but...
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Sophia.
The pesky emotion that is known as fear is seriously useless, the cause of many issues, and almost always temporary. It passes, eventually. But when you're in that moment, wrapped head to toe in it, you begin thinking it's endless. I'm in that moment. I'm wrapped in terror. Even the parts I think I can go to to get away from it, I hide my panic hidden, raw and ugly. It's holding hostage every racing thought in my head, and all my actions are coiled in it. I feel my raging pulse, exhausted and overwhelmed, but never letting up, isn't allowed to because I don't let it. Instead, I keep running, metaphorically because I am in no condition to run, but without sleep, nutrients, or even basic sanity, I don't give myself a second to gather it together. Despite the dread that's piled up in my stomach, and powerful detestation, I don't give it to asking for help, to letting anyone know I can't actually do this on my own. I can't, otherwise I'd crumble to that mind bending fear inside me.
My arms numb, I try to think back to when they had gone numb, but I can't remember. Not so quietly, I hear my stomach rumbling from the lack of food, but I ignore it, and stay cuddled up on the couch, wishing I could say I am handling this entire situation like the confident woman I paint myself to be, but... well, I'm not.
In fact, I, Sophia Larovich, who can handle just about anything, am not handling Jax being sick very well at all.
Another fact, I'm pretty sure I look like a unhinged version of a crazy person right now; I feel so.
WebMD loaded up on my phone, I scowled at it, wondering if the pediatrician I spoke to is even board certified. I've given the appropriate time for Jax to get better, just like the pediatrician suggested, but now I'm wondering if he's full of shit. I know, I know, you shouldn't google your symptoms. Yes, I even know the joke where google basically tells you that you're dying, or are already dead. But fuck it. I'm desperate here. I don't know how much more time I should be giving this sickness the freedom to run loose in my baby. I want to crush it, suffocate it out of his body, but the doctor with the MD said I need to give it time. What kind of fucken advice is that? With every second that Jax isn't doing better, I can feel my control spilling through my fingers, the unknown becoming a taunting song,
A low laugh formed in my chest, but I squashed it quickly. Before Jax, I never understood why parents got so worked up when their children were sick. Now, I'm laughing at my stupidity. Unless it's critical it'd pass, or so I thought, and now I'm realizing I was plain clueless. Now I understand those parents. They become mad people is just a representation of what's in their mind... absolute chaos explosion. You forget the world exists outside your sick baby; your world becomes that sickness. A sickness that won't only not pass, is hurting your child, but also mocking you with its ability to do so.
