The Lone Dove #1
Love and Trust are two very important ideals, but what happens when the moment you lose the two most important people in the world and are left with an inheritance, and a company you find you cannot trust anyone else with. That is P...
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CHAPTER TWELVE: A Play of Russian Roulette
Death is a part of life, that is what my Father taught me when instead of having the 'birds, bees and cooties' talk with me as a pre-teen, he had a talk on the reality of life and death. That it is normal, it is accepted. That it is a time to forgive, but not always to forget, to not forget the good memories, but forgive the bad ones. Who would forgive their death, I didn't. I had to live with it. I am grateful for James and Jenny...but do I wish to live with Mom's warmth, with Dad's intuition, with Mom's natural feeling of home and Dad's natural course of belonging, of being worthy. Somehow I twisted death to be that of home, a place to belong, with Mom and Dad.
I felt like it now. Like I need to go home.
"She's been out for at least three days, sir. I think Rogers got the dosages wrong."
I can't think of anything else. My head feels like someone knocked it on a brick wall a few times and then left me there, bleeding on the ground. My eyes, wide open and yet I can see any colours, nothing fades in and out because it's all just...black.
The fear I feel does not match with the way my brain runs. I cannot seem to remember what fear should feel like, because the electrical signals that is supposed to be channeling through my body, to my control centre and back again, has stilled.
Nothing moves.
Not even the flow of blood.
But, I can still hear.
"It may be a few more days, until she wakes." A concerned bystander...or a fearful employee.
Probably the latter.
"I CANNOT GET ANYTHING FROM HER IF SHE'S NOT CONSCIOUS!" Someone yells, their voice ringing in my ears. I would have jumped on the spot, frightful and almost drained with horrified trembles in my bones, in my skin. It snakes around my neck like a permanent strain against my trachea, choking, clogging the air, breaking bone, crushing every organ I had until a painstaking rush of it is what kills me. A release of air, the last release.
It's a male voice. He screams his frustrations to the four walls that trap me in. I knew him. I knew of him.
"Find out the exact amount that was injected into her system, calculate the hours and minutes she's expected to be unconscious and go get me Rogers, NOW!" It's the male voice again.
I breathe out. I breathe in. None of it works, none of it changes the fact that the brink of death is not where I am right now, it is not a position I am in. I don't know whether to be happy about that, thinking about the people I would have left behind. I wonder if my parents thought about this before death.
The ministrations, the rhythm, it all remains constant.
It stays the same. I stay the same. Still. Silent as the stone.
