chronometer

recalculate

A/N: I AM SO SORRY???????????
not really. love y'all :) thx for not killing me yet :))))
WARNING: description of panic attack and some violence

I gave her ten years when I left. I gave her ten years when I left. I gave her ten years when I left.

I close my eyes and wait a few seconds, hoping that when I open them again the numbers displayed across her forearm won't be dull and gray and lifeless. I want them to glow again. I want her to glare daggers at me and yell at me for not calling while I was gone. I want her to wrap her arms around me so tightly I can barely speak a word. I want her to ask what I've been doing and if I've been safe, I want her to ask about Avi and Esther, I want her to lecture me about doing stupid things, I want her to lose her mind wondering how I managed to bring Mitch, I want her to want me to stay home, I want her to be alive.

I fall to my knees, holding tightly onto her arm. My forehead presses against the edge of the bed and screams fill the sickening silence of the room. If I weren't screaming, I would be vomiting. I know the moment I stop, that will be next. My body becomes racked with something of a mix between sobs and screams. I struggle to take a breath of air and my lungs burn with the torture of being unable to fill with air. It's enough to send me into nothingness. I don't even think about the fact that I've probably -- no, definitely -- alerted Mitchell. The thought doesn't even cross my mind-- not when I stand back up, not when I begin to shake my mother's shoulders begging, pleading for this to be a cruel joke.

It doesn't even start to when he's in the doorway with his hands over his mouth whispering a soft, "Oh my god."

I pull at my mother, her blonde hair cascading over her delicate eyelashes and I still convince myself someone is pranking me. She looks too peaceful. No bone in her body is too ragged, too loose to be broken. There are no marks on her. No signs of struggle. She is completely at rest, despite the numbers on her arm signifying the end of her life. I left her with ten fucking years. I'm crying so hard I can't even see past my own tears, I still can't breathe, and now there are hands on me, coming from behind, trying to pull me away from my mother. I do not want to leave her. I do not want to leave.

"Let me go! L--Let me go--" I'm yelling, keeping my hands locked on her. I forget who came with me. I forget who came to help me. Who is trying to take me away from her? I do not want to leave her. I do not want to leave.

"Scott, you're going to hurt her," The voice is trying to be calm, trying to speak to me lightly. Somewhere in the back of my mind it's familiar to me. I do not care. I do not want to leave.

"Scott, please!" Now they are desperate, begging me to listen. I will not. I become angry. I do not want these hands on me anymore. I want them gone. I want to be with my mother. I want her to be awake. I want them gone. My fists clench.

"NO!"

I whirl around with brisk pace, catching the blurry figure by their shoulders and pushing them with all of my weight. I'm blind with rage. I keep my hands latched tight and move my feet forward, intending to either shove them from the room or into the nearest wall. They crossed the line. They got too close to her. I do not want to leave her. I want them gone. I will not leave. This is a joke. She will wake up soon, I know she will. I can't breathe. I am angry.

I hear a strangled yelp and we're tumbling to the floor in a heap, the small body underneath my frame. I take a second to recover, and the fact that we've fallen seems to only have angered me even more. I sit up on the intruder's waist teeth gnashing in rage, and they whimper at the discomfort of the extra weight. I ignore the pathetic noise. All I can see is red. They shouldn't have tried to take me away from her. They should not have touched me. She needs me. I will not leave. I raise my hands and through my sightless vexation, I notice the figure raise their arms to protect their face. That simply won't do.