The Heart Of The Lonely

CHAPTER 3

"Brandon Hart, 34."

A woman informed in a rushed tone. Her voice was faint, or so it sounded in his weakened state. He had lost consciousness after the incident in the warehouse and, he'd began to no more than partly open his eyes when he had felt jostled and moved around.

He had no idea where he was or who had flown to his aid. All he knew, in that moment, was that he wasn't alone but that he could trust the ones hovering over him.

"It's a gunshot wound." The same woman continued, glancing down at him.

She seemed to be talking in a walkie-talkie, clinging firmly to the white bar above her head, keeping her balance. She was wearing an all-Caribbean blue scrubs and if her voice was any indication of the location of the injury or its emergency, things were not looking good for him.

A nurse.

He had no business doing with someone like that, not on his daughter's birthday. He was supposed to be with her and his wife, not laying here, surrounded by strangers.

He wanted to shout at them, telling them to leave him alone and to let him get back to his family but all the energy he had was drained out of his body and, the rational part of him knew that both woman and man by his side were here to help him.

"Blood pressure down by three points." The medic announced, squinting underneath their large glasses.

He had no idea what any of it meant and he wasn't sure he would either had he been in a better disposition. Everything felt surreal, he could have sworn his soul had left his body.

No, none of this was really happening. He had to be having a bad dream. One he could not wake up from. And all of this confusion made him feel even weaker than he already was.

He knew that he needed to keep his eyes open but the tension in the ambulance made it increasingly difficult.

Instead, he let his eyelids close progressively, letting his body go limp exhaustingly on top of the uncomfortable stretcher.

***

Black finger nails tapped on the wooden table impatiently, following a constant and rhythmical pattern, the Paris-themed clock on the wall echoing in unison.

Although it certainly didn't help her overstimulated mind, she couldn't help herself. She half-attempted to stop her hand from moving but the result was as ineffective as the last time she'd tried to bake her own red-velvet cake.

Luckily for her, Juliet was a relatively calm child and was quietly keeping to herself, fascinated by the black and white images displayed on the television screen as she watched a woman and her best friend, both gifted with colorful personalities - much to the despair of their husbands.

Ariel couldn't have been more thankful for the 50's sitcom, keeping her daughter entertained as thousands of thoughts filled her head.

As much as she loved her one-year-old, she knew she would have had an eventual meltdown had she been screaming at the top of her lungs or been in a very capricious mood while she was fidgeting, quite excessively on the edge.

"He should be home by now!" She mumbled to herself, slamming her hand on the table, her now dancing fingers laying flat in front of her.

It wasn't that she was angry at him for leaving or that she felt remorseful that she hadn't tried harder to hold him back but the nagging feeling she felt - that pierced her deep in her chest, numbing her - was driving her insane.

She couldn't fathom the idea of her husband being in any kind of danger and she was praying the Lord that she was simply being paranoid.

"He will walk in, in any minute and show you how much of a dang fool you're being."