White walls encase me as I inhale the scent of cleaning supplies. The sound of a cart rolling across the speckled tile alerts me, the loud jangling of sterile suture kits rattling as the cart shifts throughout the hospital. I can hear the wheels every time they make a full rotation, and I keep listening until the sound is carried away two elevator dings later.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
It's been a week, and the only time I've left this chair has been to go to the bathroom. I'm still dressed in leggings and the bloodstained shirt that bares my nickname on the back and his face on the front. His wide smile with his dimpled cheeks, curls spilling over that ridiculous bandana he insists on wearing to keep his hair out of his beautiful, emerald eyes.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
When I look at him now, his face is a blank mask. It looks like him, but at the same time, it doesn't resemble him at all. Instead of his cocky smirk and bright eyes, his face remains dull and lifeless, like he's already gone and his body is only here for its final goodbye. And while I know that isn't necessarily the case, the past week has been full of tears, stress, and heartache.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
I thought I had known heartbreak. I thought I had experienced my heart shattering in full when I watched Eli aim the gun, a perfect shot straight into my mother's skull. While that put a strain on my heart, I've recently realized that I've never truly experienced my heart breaking. Until now. A heart cannot break unless it loves completely and purely, and he is the only one I have ever found that with.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
What I know is that a heart doesn't just break, it doesn't shatter into a million little pieces expecting to be put back together right away. Instead, tiny shards of the heart break off, one at a time, slowly chipping away at the whole. The problem is when the heart has become so small and there are no more pieces to scrape away. And that's it. That tiny little fragment is all that's left; when that splits, the heartbreak begins. And instead of picking up all the pieces and making the heart whole again, all that's needed for the heart to heal are those last two shreds. The hard part is finding them ⎯ it's like two needles in a haystack.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
I shift my gaze from Holden to the monitor, my eyes intently following his strong heartbeat. Although the constant noise from the machine can get irritating, the beeps indicate that his heart is working on its own, and right now, it's the most beautiful sound I could ever imagine.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
"Please wake up," My voice is quiet, a gentle whisper. I can't bring myself to talk any louder; all I can make myself do at this point is beg. Beg him to come back to me. Beg him to fight.
"Do you want him to see you like this when he wakes up?" The voice travels across the spacious room, the high-pitched tone making my ears itch.
Amelia continues speaking, not ecstatic about my lack of response, "Seriously, Tatum. You look like you just rolled out of a bin, and you're stained with blood."
"I don't care what I look like, I just want him to wake up."
Her shoes click against the floor as she walks toward me, but I keep my eyes centered on Holden. I know my own pain; I don't want to see hers, too.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
"How do you think the rest of us feel? He's my son, Tatum. I gave birth to him, watched as he started to grow crooked teeth, forced him into braces, watched him grow into a man. That's my baby." She takes a deep breath before continuing, obviously frustrated. "We all want him to wake up. We all plan on it. He may be stuck in a bed right now, but you're not. Get your arse up and keep living your life like the rest of us, that's what Holden would want."
YOU ARE READING
KNOCKOUT
Teen Fiction***SEQUEL to FIGHT*** The last word she said to him was "fight." And that's exactly what he did. Tatum and Holden seem to have faced more challenges than most. They've been through pretty much everything - abusive exes, terrible family members, dark...
