Family Ties

Sick

Hannah's POV

Numb. That was all I felt. The funny thing was, I thought I'd felt numb for the past few months, but this was completely different. I'd been so angry with myself for not being able to feel things, for believing that I was some kind of robot that was incapable of feeling, but I'd been so very wrong.

What I was feeling now, that was numb. I felt absolutely nothing. My entire body, my mind, my soul, was just a complete black hole of nothingness. I couldn't feel the pain I knew I was in, I couldn't feel Harry's warmth or his arms around me as he did his best to comfort me. I couldn't even feel the blankets as he carefully draped them over me, trying to make sure I didn't get cold.

I thought about how I'd love to be cold, to feel some kind of sensation, something, anything. I tried to remember what it felt like to feel hungry, or tired, to get a paper cut or stub my toe, but there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. I found myself wishing I could go back to the way I felt before, cursing myself for being so bitter when I obviously wasn't numb, when I still had the ability to feel something, to know that I loved my family and my friends, to feel their love for me. That wasn't numb, this was.

I had no idea how long I'd been laying in that bed, drifting in and out of what I assumed was sleep although I never felt rested or even awake. I was in a current state of nothingness, lost somewhere between asleep and awake, not noting a single difference between the two. It could have been hours, or even months, for all I knew but it didn't matter either way. I'd been staring at the same spot on the wall for as long as I could remember, my mind so blank that I didn't have a single thought.

I didn't hear anything, complete silence, not even the sound of my own breathing echoing in my lungs would register in my mind. I started to wonder if I was even alive, and maybe I heard no breath because I wasn't actually breathing. I was vaguely aware that I was laying down, but that was only because my spot on the wall was horizontal to the rest of the room.

I knew him well enough to know that Harry was probably hovering, doing his best to snap me out of whatever this was. I can't say that I was particularly aware of his presence, or anyone elses for that matter, as I seemingly just laid there an empty sack of skin that contained organs that supposedly kept me alive even though I didn't feel that way. I didn't know what I was, where I was, who I was, all I knew was that my spot on the wall never seemed to move and I liked it that way.

I recalled making that absentminded phone call, where I casually called my mother to find out how to get the grass stains out of Hank's soccer uniform and got the recording reminding me her number had been disconnected. I found it odd that my body seemed to know before my brain did that I realized she was gone, it was bizarre to me. Of course I knew she was dead, they both were, I'd sat at their funerals for fuck sakes. Why I would even attempt to call her was strange to me, it was as if I forgot she was gone and I could just call her for help like I always had. All of that time I'd spent waiting for it to hit me, wishing I could feel something and praying it would come sooner than later, none of it could have prepared me for that moment to come over a fucking grass stain.

Was that all she was to me? Someone that I could call to ask about stupid shit like what temperature to put a turkey in at or how to get a grass stain out of a t-shirt? It had been months since I'd spoken to her, I'd been to her funeral, helped my dad pack up her stuff, and not once did I even cry. I didn't cry for Emma when her kids did, or when she missed them learning to swim, all of the moments she missed in between. I didn't cry for either of them, not until I needed help with a fucking laundry dilemma.

I'm sure if I could have felt anything in that moment I would have felt like a complete and utter piece of shit, someone who couldn't mourn the loss of two amazing women or feel the pain of the children that I was now raising. I couldn't even feel for Harry or Gemma or the rest of them who'd all lost the closest thing to a mother they'd ever had. Not even the thought of my father, sleeping alone in the bed he'd shared with her for almost 30 years, could bring a single feeling to my body. I laid there, staring at my spot, for as long as my eyes would stay open. Then they would close for a while, and I'd repeat it. I didn't know how long I'd been doing that, but I also didn't seem to care.