Hypnotised (Magnets Book 2)

Chapter 38

Dan's POV

I couldn't say the same for Phil.

Every day, he got weaker. Every day, another part of him seemed to slip away into the abyss. Some days he didn't stand. Others he didn't even lift a finger. His strength was obviously draining away. It meant that Rose and Shane and I had to do more for him. I didn't mind. Not at all.

When his legs got too weak, he got a wheelchair. He sat in that for days afterwards, leaving the couch free for others to finally sit on. But that didn't really matter, because every single goddamn time I saw him wheeling down the hall or into the kitchen I felt a horrible pang in my heart and it drove me crazy. It could've been sympathy. It could've been guilt. But that didn't matter, because now I could barely look at the couch without my eyes watering.

I never let myself cry in front of Phil. He didn't need to see that, to have to deal with my weakness, to feel that guilt. I hid away, up in the attic, and took long drives during which I could barely see for the tears in my eyes and cascading down my face. I wasn't one of those people that didn't cry, like in books and movies. I cried. I felt real emotion. Real and raw and painful.

Some dark part of me just wanted Phil's pain to be over, because the amount of medication he was on told me he was in absurd amounts of it. The way he moved, the way he winced when he thought people weren't looking. Just. It hurt me as well, seeing him like that. But it wasn't about how I felt anymore. The depression had receded. Now all I felt was raw  fucking pain.

That day, I think we all heard the wheezing, first. It wasn't really out of the ordinary—heavy breathing had become a regular occurrence, due to the lung cancer.

I remember the day down to the very last detail. Down to the shape of the clouds in the sky, the feel of the cold counter against my palms. I was in the kitchen, half-asleep and making coffee. Rose had Thursdays off and was bustling around upstairs. The house was neat and the morning winter sun was shining weakly through the windows, not really providing any warmth, but brightening the day like no one's business. Against the harsh wind, it was proving to be a cold day. The scent of cookies was in the air—Rose had baked some an hour before. I was watching a fly make its way along the counter when I heard it.

Again, heavy breathing was not out of the ordinary. But that particular morning, I had walked downstairs to see Phil in his wheelchair, hand over his chest, a troubled look on his face. When he'd seen my openly concerned face, he'd taken it away and given me a cold look. Like he didn't want me to worry. So, naturally, I worried.

The worry that plagued me ramped up a notch when I heard the wheezing. It was like Phil was breathing in knives. I walked quickly into the lounge room. The room was undisturbed, dust motes floating in the sunlight from the window, settling on the cushions. 

Phil, however, was far from undisturbed. His chest was heaving, although it didn't look very effective. In his eyes there was an expression of pure panic—the same panic that gripped my heart and made my blood run ice cold. For two seconds, I just stood there in shock. Then my brain kicked into action.

"Rose!" I yelled, "Call the ambulance!" Before rushing forward and kneeling by Phil's chair. Rose came rushing down the stairs, took one glance at Phil, whose fingers had gone a deathly blue, and raced into the kitchen to get her phone. Phil was making these horrible choking sounds, his mouth wide open and trying to suck in air. "Phil." I took a deep, shaky breath. "Relax your chest." My voice was strong despite the fact that I felt like I was caving in on myself.

He did nothing, just stared right at me with his wide, terror-filled eyes. His chest rose and fell as sporadically as it had before. His mouth opened. "Cah...breah..." He gasped. My heart clenched.