paper rings (l.h.)

59

Mary was too tired to properly understand the brooding soul who stalked the edge of her bed, who shrugged off the anger that seemed to leak from his every pore. She lifted her head up anyway despite how badly it throbbed. The Tylenol only worked so much against the swelling that had forced her to rely on her left eye, or against the laceration in her leg that kept her from moving in the bed to prevent her sore back. "I shouldn't be in here too much longer," Mary finally managed to verbalize to him, to force him to stop pacing and sit down either in the recliner behind him or the spot she had kept for him beside her. "Tomorrow night latest, I bet."

She wished that she could read his thoughts, wished there was a way to figure out what he's feeling without forcing him to share it. Hints Luke dropped allowed her the knowledge that life after his Father had passed hadn't been a pleasant one. Luke's Father was their primary caretaker after all, his Mom spent the better part of their childhood and her marriage here at the hospital.

But this anger was so deep, had burned hot for so long she hadn't seen anything like it. Especially not from him. Especially not because someone spoke down to her. Something wicked inside her allowed butterflies to flutter where there had once grown cobwebs, she hadn't had anyone care about her like that before.

"It's not you being here," Luke finally scoffed, not allowing himself to go further. To elaborate. Mary knew what he meant anyway, was beginning to finish his sentences for him. Before he left, she even found herself picking up on some of his mannerisms. The way he half-smiled every time he received a compliment, or the breath-y chuckles he used to hide his bashfulness. But this time, Mary was certain. She nodded, eternally grateful that she was given a Mother who was not as awful as his could be.

"What..." Mary began after a pause, her jaw clenching as she grabs onto the sides of the bed to adjust herself. Biting back her groan of pain, Luke was too busy walking from one side of the bed to another to care. Mary gestures to the hallway. "What was said out there?"

"Nothing," Luke spat, probably a little harsher than he had ever been with her. He was upset, knew that his fist would probably wind up deep into one of the walls of this room if he didn't calm down. He ran his fingers through his hair, fighting the urge to try and pull his curls out from his scalp. But he didn't, instead, he kept pacing.

Mary's gaze intensified, Luke had already half convinced himself that she probably thought he was insane by his behavior alone. He hated that she was witnessing him like this. Knew she deserved an explanation, or reason as to why he was behaving the way he was.

"She..." Luke began, dropping his hands to the side and looking up at the ceiling above his head. His sigh was deep as he did so, Mary watching as his chest deflated as he shares: "She complained that she only ever hears about me through the tabloids. Doesn't know why."

Mary scoffed. "And she's a doctor?"

Luke would have married her alone for that snarky comment, perhaps the meanest thing she's said thus far that he has witnessed — and about his Mother, nonetheless. He was nearly knocked off his feet. He halfway expected her to convince him to give his Mom another chance, to try and promise him that the relationship would improve although he was fairly certain that a Mother who loved him was something he'd be cheated out of.

"And I hate, hate, hate to be spoken down to. Especially by her," he points towards the open door, to the empty hallway beside the guard nearby. "I spent my childhood hating her. Hating her for not being there, for brushing off Dad as soon as she came in the door. For crying," he continues, his eyes displaying more pain, more sorrow than he had ever shown her. Glittering tears rimmed the bottom of those sapphire eyes until the tears slipped down his red cheeks. "At my Father's funeral, when she was never home enough to know exactly what she had lost."