After experiencing a life-altering tragedy, Emersyn feels as if her world has collapsed. Attempting to accept her new reality, Emersyn wonders how she can possibly keep going when it feels like her life ended months ago. Until she meets Haven, and s...
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I have lost track of time while working on my essay.
Lost in a daze, I only return to reality when there is a soft knock on Haven's hospital door. The sound jolts me back to the present and I blink, realizing that the world has fallen dark outside of the window as the door creaks open and Mrs. Hartley pokes her head inside. She enters the room with a faint smile, though her presence immediately sets me on edge. I know Mrs. Hartley well by now–I can read her expressions and somehow just know what she is feeling. Regarding her now, I sense that something is wrong.
Gently, I close my laptop and give my undivided attention to Mrs. Hartley as she takes a seat at the foot of Haven's bed. Her stare turns to her daughter and she sighs. Her gaze is somber as she runs a hand over Haven's leg beneath the scratchy hospital seats, an aura of hope hanging around her as if she is anticipating her daughter's sudden arousal.
Haven does not wake.
I am the first to break the heavy silence clinging to the air. "Any news?"
I don't know why I ask. Maybe because I know the answer without having to be told. Maybe because I know Mrs. Hartley's expression all too well and I am selfish–I don't care what the updates are, I just want to know what is going on with my girl. Maybe because my gut tells me that whatever is going on, it is not good.
Mrs. Hartley's stare does not tear from her daughter as she nods. Her once bright blue eyes are dark, somber pools of despair. The smile lines around her lips and eyes have turned into weeping streams. Grief has aged her–it has taken her beauty that was once radiant like the sun and turned it to the dim light of the moon.
But there is still light. The moon still shines through darkness. There is still hope.
"I spoke with Haven's head doctor," Mrs. Hartley responds after a moment. Her voice is tight and weak and fragile. She seems tired, worn, weary. My heart aches for her.
I shift in my seat anxiously. "What did she say?"
Mrs. Hartley hesitates before responding. She busies herself by removing the wrinkles from Haven's sheets with her hands. She does not meet my gaze when she speaks again.
"She said that she and her team are doing everything in their power to care for Haven and to treat her condition . . ."
Mrs. Hartley trails off and my heart seizes in my chest, pounding so hard I can hear its steady roar in my eardrums. I can't think, can't move, can't speak–I can't do anything but stare at Haven as she sleeps, blinking furiously as my eyes begin to sting. A dread like no other rises in my chest, as consuming as a riptide during a hurricane. Slowly, I feel myself sinking, falling prey to its overwhelming power. Because surely Mrs. Hartley's words are to be followed by a but; surely she is about to deliver a shattering, life-altering, soul ruining sentence that will destroy me.
Mrs. Hartley clears her throat, either oblivious or all too aware of my thoughts as she continues to fidget with Haven's bedsheets. Suddenly, I notice that she has started to cry. The tears are silent, meant for just herself, an unconscious display of her pain. Her tears are blood, leaking from her soul, staining her skin. When she speaks again, her voice is pinched and tight and full of pain.
