Troye's pov
Long after Jacob is gone in surgery, being repaired by what people assume to be gods, and long after Dad's knees start to lock up from holding me up for so long, he never let go. *for readers' sake*: Neither of them did.
It really does bother me though, how people look at surgeons as if they're gods. They aren't. They are simply humans just like all of us, they're just qualified to open up a body and try to fix what's been done.
Okay, that sounds a little harsh. How about... a range of people who are knowledgeable and more qualified to open up a body than the average person. Imagine some kid opening up a body and trying to fix a pulmonary edema. He'd have no clue what to do. Probably play around the lungs, trying to figure out how he's going to drain all of this liquid, how he's going to keep this other kid in front of him alive. The more time that passes, the less time Jacob has.
Maybe he'd place a scalpel to the boy's lungs, attempt to drain them somehow. Maybe he'd get a straw-like tool and stick it in, the liquid pouring out. I have not a clue, I'm not a surgeon. I would be that amateur kid that costed another his life. Maybe it is a good thing we have surgeons.
"Troye?" Dad asks, shaking me out of my thoughts.
I turn my head up at him, "Hmm?"
"How about we go visit Mum? She's not a far walk from here." He offers, letting go of me and cracking his knuckles. He does it by habit, sometimes forcibly.
I nod, stretching out my back and yawning.
We walk out of the room and down the hall, headed to Mum's section of the hospital; the hospice unit.
"Will they still let us see her? It's past visiting hours." I mutter, squinting my eyes at the bright lights above us.
Looking to Dad, I see him nod his head yes.
"It's almost time, they gave me an all day pass last week." He pulls a little paper out of his coat pocket and hands it to me.
'Shaun Mellet - let it at any time
signature - MARY LANDIG'
I whisper an alright, handing the paper back to him and shoving my hands in my coat pockets. In no time we're walking through the hospice doors and flashing the paper at the lady keeping watch at her desk. She nods and points to Mum's door, as if we didn't already know it was her room.
Of course we knew, it is the last room she'll ever see.
"You go in first, I need to use the loo." Dad kisses my forehead and heads off down the hallway.
I let out a small sigh and gently push open the door, it revealing the tired looking woman I call my mother.
"Hey Mommy," I whisper as I walk up to her bed.
She cracks a concerned smile and holds her hand out for me to take. I do, of course, and bring her bony fingers to my lips, kissing her knuckles softly.
"How are you, my dearest?" She asks, "What are you doing at hospital at six in the morning?"
I frown and sit up on the bed with her, crossing my legs. She shimmies her body up onto a sitting position and looks at me with expectant eyes.
"My friend was beaten up and his lungs are all messed up or something now. He's in surgery." I explain, setting her hand on my lap, twiddling with it.
"Oh, Tokky, are you alright?" She questions, reversing roles with our hands and rubbing my palm in an attempt to soothe my distress.
I ponder whether or not to nod my head yes or not, to lie or not to lie? Dad's voice echoes in my head... "Lying is bad, Tok, lying is icky. We don't lie, alright?" I keep my face still, deciding on the ladder.
