Never ownED myself

Tom POV

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Healing is understanding, accepting, rebuilding...
Paching Hoé Lambaiho
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The room hummed just enough for the sound to exist.

Tom drew the comb through Annie's hair. The plastic teeth whispered against the same strand. Again. And again. Finally, the comb clicked against the table.

Fabric shifted as he rolled her limp shoulder. The sheet rasped when he pulled it flat. Her joints made small, dry sounds as he bent her fingers, one at a time. One resisted. Then loosened.
Water sloshed in the bowl. His hands twisted a cloth. He dragged it gently across her face, the sound soft and damp against her skin. He dried her carefully, then spread balm across her lips. It made a faint, sticky sound before going quiet.

"This is the only way I can help you now."
The words settled into the room and stayed there.

Her breathing changed. It caught on the way in, scraped on the way out. Tom stepped closer. The floor creaked under his weight. He slid his hands beneath her back and lifted her chest. Air rattled. He lowered it, then lifted again.

"They won't let me take you to a real hospital," he said. His voice sounded too loud. "This can't last forever."

The next breath didn't come.
The room went still. No fabric moved. No air passed.

Tom leaned down. The bedframe complained softly. He pressed her chest. The sound was dull, too solid.

"Annie." Nothing answered. He pressed again. Harder this time.

"Breathe."
The hum filled the silence. Seconds passed without sound. Then her chest jerked. Air tore in, sharp and wrong. Tom released his hands.

It stopped again.
"No."

He pressed her chest and held it there. No sound. He bent close, his breath brushing her ear.
"Exhale."

For a moment, nothing happened. Then her chest fell. Air slid out in a long, uneven sound, half breath, half sigh.
"Yes," he said. "That's it."

Her breathing returned. In. Out. Slow. Wet.

Tom sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped. He waited, listening. When the rhythm held, he lay beside her. The bed creaked. His hand settled on her chest and stayed there.

"I'm just going to close my eyes for a minute," he said. "Keep breathing."
The door opened. The hinges made a quiet protest.

"Time to eat, Tom."
He lifted his head.
Lina stood in the doorway. She didn't come closer. The hum of the room stretched between them.
"How is she today?"

"Her breathing keeps stopping for seconds at a time," Tom said. "It drives me crazy every time."

Lina moved to the other side of the bed. The mattress dipped under her weight. She placed her hand on Annie's chest and held it there. Tom stepped back. A chair scraped softly as he pulled it away and sat to eat.

"Huh," Lina said. "I thought she had more of a fighter in her. Seems like the duel was the only thing keeping her together."

"It makes no sense," Tom said. His fork tapped the plate once, then stopped. "Her goal was to reach her father. To save her mother from grief. Then why?" His voice tightened. "What happened? Why did she lose her will to live?"

Lina's hand didn't move from Annie's chest.
"It has everything to do with Leah," she said. "Annie had a unique connection with her. She hoped winning the game would bring Leah back." A pause. "It didn't."