Open Heart {Under Revision}

Chapter 40- Through Common Grounds

'Soon, the borrowed time with Sylvan slipped away like a broken hourglass that bled sand of life. And then...my father daggered the cursed miracle.'

——o——

San Diego. February, Ten Years Ago...

As far as living went, it was a normal day. My cousin had returned from Boston and we're gossiping about his pillages in labs. He blabbed about a new pharma company—the one associated with our hospital—showering lavish donations for their equipments and how he was planning to return for another tenure.

Mid-sentence, he just stopped as if something logged the words. His eyes went to his hands...and they trembled.

"Sylvan?" I called in a whispery-breath.

Then he looked at me, fear lancing its way.

"What's wrong, Sylvan?"

Before he could answer, he just crumpled into sand—as quiet as brush of bitter breath. And then he started shuddering of if a violent earthquake had manacled him within. Another seizer.

Waves broke around, shattering us. Pulling me under.

My gaze stayed forged to Sylvan. Shock filled my lungs.

And then, I tore apart that silence. And ran.

Ran until oxygen depleted from my body. Ran until blackness crept at corner of my eyes. Ran until my legs no longer existed. Ran and grabbed the phone to call the paramedics. Daniella. Shawn. Mother. Called whomever I could.

And when the sirens pushed away the sound of sea, only then I did close my eyes—the crippling sensation of approaching death taking away the matter of heart.

When I regained my senses, it felt as if sand had buried me in a delicate grave. Yet I presented myself and requested our driver to take me to Turner Memorial because I knew father would've taken him there. For the cure.

At hospital, a resident dropped me right outside father's office and then dashed away. Every sapient being on this planet savoured absolute fear while facing Dr. Steven Turner.

But today, even the years-long deposited aversion scattered away.

Before I could knock, arguing voices deterred me. They were loud and furtive. One of them protested in steady flow, objection lined in each word. That was Naveen. And answering him with calm ire was my father.

I ignored the shiver that skittered down my spine and knocked. Their argument ceased.

Heavy footsteps followed in, the sound which had chased me horrors at our house but I remained firm. This was about Sylvan. I needed to be strong.

The door opened, revealing my father. He blinked at me, confused by this strange creature standing before him. Then his eyes narrowed in remembrance that he had a daughter somewhere hidden in that horrible prison by the sea.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded like an angry battle god.

Behind, a tired and haggard Naveen appeared. "Charlotte?"

Nothing came out of my mouth.

My father's lips curled. "I asked you a question."

"Steven. She's a child!" Naveen snapped as if it made sense and pushed his friend aside before pulling me to the office. The scene that greeted me wasn't surprising—a familiar decoration of avalanche having lain waste. And I tasted the depression, anger and remorse that had trailed.