The Eccedentesiast

Chapter Forty-eight

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Chapter Forty-eight
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"She's not in a coma." The doctor flipped through the papers on the clipboard. "She'll be out for a few hours. Maybe a day or two, but that'll be it."

Michael pushed back his wife's blonde hair. "She'll be okay?" he whispered loud enough for Emma and the doctor to hear.

"She's okay . . . for now." The doctor cleared his throat, his fist coming up to cover his mouth. "Mr. Stone . . ." he sighed, ". . . when she's up, she might be alive, or . . . she might just be opening her eyes as she experiences her death."

Emma sat down on a chair in a far corner of the hospital room, defeated.

"I'm sorry." The doctor nodded at both of them before exiting the room.

"If she does wake up," Michael began, "it won't change anything."

"I know." Emma mindlessly pinched the skin of her forearm. "She'll be dead. It won't matter."

Michael huffed. "I thought we'd have more time. It's not like this can be it."

"It is." Emma leaned her elbows against her knees.

"Have some time with her." He stood up straight from his leaning position. Letting go of Debra's hand, he walked toward the door. "I've been with her night and day for over a week now and I'm running out of clean clothes."

Emma waved at him with a smile. "I'll see you later."

"Alright, sweetheart, I'll be back." He closed the door behind him, and the noise of people in the hallway was blocked out.

Emma smiled at her sleeping mother, everything looked okay. Her lips looked pretty dry, and her skin looked pale. But other than that, everything seemed too normal. She didn't look sick, not at all. She looked okay. It only seemed like she was stuck indoors for a few days without sunlight.

"Hi." Emma sat on the seat beside her mother's hospital bed and reached over to grab her hand, but hesitated and let the thought go.

She slid her hands into her hoodie's pocket and slumped her shoulders.

"When I was thirteen . . . I tried killing myself. I mean, I never got to the actual part, but I was going to. There was a knife . . . a blade, and there could have been broken glass from a bottle that I would have shattered to pieces.

"But anyway, I never did it. Maybe I was scared, or maybe I didn't have the guts. But I know one thing, I would have done it if only I wasn't so fucking worried about what others would think of me.

"The messed up part is that you were never the first thing on my mind when I pressed a knife against my wrists. I had to force myself to think about you, and when I did, you were never enough to stop me. The image of you standing over my lifeless body was never enough to make me stop. I would have done it.

"I had to think it through. I thought about what others might think after I was gone. Maybe they would talk and say that I was selfish because I had it all. I have parents and a pretty nice childhood filled with toys and food that others couldn't afford. I was afraid they would judge me because I didn't have a reason to hate myself or the life I held in my hands. I was afraid of criticism and hate and that was the only thing that stuck to my mind.