Breaking Point

15

Chapter 15

I was out of the house in no less than five minutes. Fear had seized my heart, and it thudded loudly in my ears, drowning out my thoughts and making me painfully aware of my surroundings. My feet slapped against the cold pavement. It was early morning, and the birds were chirping, and the sky was flushed pink and orange as the sun lazily made it's way up the sky. My fingers trembled from worry and cold and fear.

Salma's shock was still imprinted in my mind, her mouth agape in a gasp, her hand drifting up to her face.

Ian's blonde curls were shorter in the picture, I thought suddenly, out of the blue. My mind raced as I made my way to the bus stop. It was the same hospital as my father's, I realised as the bus finally arrived and I finally got on and when the hospital finally came into view, but I was still froze in shock and fear and I was praying that the he was okay.

He was in the emergency rooms, and he was lying in his stretcher staring at the ceiling when I shoved the curtain aside. I had gone through hell trying to find him as there were EMT people scurrying around making my heart jolt every time I saw their neon yellow uniforms, and causing the worst conclusions to jump into my head. I could smell blood and sweat and bleach and scrubs and it made me dizzy and exhausted; it made me remember my father and endless visits at the hospital, overnight stays and tasteless food and the cold professionalism of dealing with enthusiastic nurses and the dreadful, hushed talks with expressionless doctors and their offhanded way of giving out information like:

"Your father is in a coma," but it came out sounding like "the sun is out today," or "tonight's dinner is fried vegetables with soup,"

But all I heard was: "your father may or may not die."

Ian's mother was sobbing on a small chair beside his stretcher. A mask was attached to his face, which was attached to an oxygen tank. My chest rose when I saw his eyes open and his heart monitor steady and his wet, fingers grasping his mother's hand. My chest rose and fell, and I erupted a relieved sigh and my legs shook while I leaned down, out of breath but so, so grateful because Ian was alive.

A little while later, when he blinked and looked around and came to realise that he was in a hospital, his eyes focused on mine and I was once again, holding my breath, apologies and regret stuck in my throat. Recognition flickered in his eyes and hip lips tighten into a thin line, maybe in anger, maybe in resentment, but I don't care in that moment: I was so glad he was okay.

"Abdullah, what are you doing here?" He asked, voice weary and tired.

"I saw --" I began, but stopped, unsure and I felt his mother's eyes on my face. "How much do you remember?"

"Uh," His voice cracked. "Oh, so I really am alive?"

His mother lets out a loud sob at this, and my heart lurched. It was in the way he said this, the surprise in his voice, the confusion. There was not a single trace of relief in his voice and I am, suddenly, horribly, guilty.

"What do you mean?" I asked, softly. "Of course you are."

He closed his eyes. "Too bad."

"Why?" His mother moaned. "Why is it bad? Why would you do that."

He was silent, eyes closed like he was trying to sink into the bed and disappear and maybe he really was trying to because his face scrunched up in concentration and denial and despair.

"Why?" His mother screamed.

"Why not?" He yelped, eyebrows furrows, face scrunched up in pain.

He placed his hands on his ears and I only watched -- I was only ever watching -- as tears leaked out his eyes and down his face and into the curve of his ears and neck. He cried and his mother wept and I watched, heart breaking.