It's surprising what human beings can accomplish when death is staring them right in the face. When things began plummeting, few knew how to react. Most were confused, seeking guidance from the very foundations and institutions that, once meant to h...
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The mechanical pumping of the medical equipment echoes from wall to wall in the small room. His chest, now covered in two large white bandages made of gauze, rises and falls methodically.
Asher is sprawled out on the couch pushed up against the wall on the other side of Lawton's bed. His right arm drapes over his eyes as the other slightly rests on the bed's metal frame. His limbs finally seem relaxed as soft snores mix in with his steady breaths.
Until Lawton was stabilized, Asher had been frantically pacing the halls—creeping towards the edge of hysteria at the thought of losing his best friend...his family. I can't say I blame him.
I hear my own heart thump in concert with the beeps of his heart monitor. Along with Asher's rhythmic, steady breathing, the sounds in the room create a sort of twisted harmony, which I can't seem to get out of my head.
I close my eyes, inhaling deeply and trying to ignore the copper scent perfuming the air, which lingers from the gauze I changed moments ago.
Gripping my sketchbook more closely to my body, I resume outlining the figure's arm and fingers, avoiding the swelling and wounds that have scabbed over. My eyes dart upward and I begin to detail the contours of his face and the ringlets of chocolate brown hair sticking to his forehead.
I don't draw the tube between his lips helping him breathe. I don't draw the cuts and bruises on his face, but instead focus on his full eyebrows and long eyelashes. I sketch a sleepy expression over his features, removing the hospital bed in favor of a meadow. Lawton finally seems at peace, even if only in my sketch.
"Wishful thinking, perhaps," I softly mumble as I darken the outline.
My feeble attempts to erase the young man's pain are interrupted by the same unfamiliar heat I seem to only feel when I enter this room. It forms in the pit of my stomach and seeps into my veins, traveling up my body.
I pull at the collar of my shirt and begin to fan myself wildly. As the heat intensifies, I take deep swigs of a water bottle, allowing the cold liquid to spread throughout my body and counteract the effects of whatever this is.
Breathing deeply, I close my eyes and begin the meditation I use for my hot flashes. But, unlike a hot flash, this heat has already dimmed and its embers begin to stir up other things on my skin.
A slight shiver runs through me as goose bumps prickle the surface of my arms and legs. I rub my hands up and down my shoulders swiftly and it takes me a moment to get a grip.
Before I can contemplate what's happening to my body, the door abruptly opens and the Director walks in, clipboard in hand and Remy following closely behind. I close my sketchbook and place it on the counter as I stand up.
He briefly acknowledges me with a nod and I try to catch Remy's eye, hoping for hints or clues as to what is going on. She slightly shakes her head, puzzled herself.
