Leviticus 20:13

Countdown Nearing The End

John POV: It would seem that John was forever waiting for someone who would never come. Two years ago she walked out that door, two years ago he was left standing in a stunned silence, two years ago he wondered what on earth he had done wrong. Divorce was messy, it always was, but when Mary left she had taken everything without the help of a lawyer, in the eyes of the law they were still legally married and yet John hadn't seen anything of his wife since she left. He kept their daughter, he kept their apartment, she took the money. Somehow she thought that was a fair trade off, and yet here he sat, waiting for her to return, two years later. And he was as alone as ever, even more alone than that fateful day where he realized his actions had consequences, where he realized the moment life didn't go perfectly Mary simply couldn't take it anymore. Loneliness was a horrible feeling, it was a burden on the soul more than the body, it pained him to simply think that this apartment, which was once full with his family, was now virtually abandoned save for himself and the figures on the TV. Rosie's bedroom remained unoccupied, still with the bed made and the pictures on the walls, her stuffed animals lined up on the shelves exactly where she had left them, save for her favorites which now accompanied her in the hospital. She had asked for them specially, and John couldn't do anything but grant her every wish. Most nights he sat in the darkness, in his armchair that had finally configured to his body so that he could sit in the ever growing imprint in the fabric day in and day out. The TV flickered with people he didn't recognize, saying things he didn't understand and following a plot that he hadn't been paying attention to. His dinner had simply been a chicken sandwich from McDonald's and a very lousy one at that. John had never learned to cook for himself and ever since Rosie had left he hadn't been making much of an effort. He knew that she was being well fed at the hospital and so he didn't mind eating garbage to bide his time and to keep himself going. It was getting harder and harder to simply function, to go to work, to eat, to sleep, he only ever wanted to be by Rosie's bedside, to read her stories and brush her hair and talk to her while he still could. Terminal diseases weren't named just for dramatic effect, and he knew that the clock was winding slowly and the countdown was nearing the end. His poor daughter was so strong, at only five years old she was fighting every day of her life just to live another hour, another minute, and what was John doing? Watching sitcoms and trying to force himself to eat another French fry? He was pathetic, he was useless, and sometimes he wondered just how he would go on once he was truly alone. John had turned to the Catholic church not for himself but for Rosie. He didn't want to return to God simply because he wanted someone to talk to; he wanted someone to help him. If doctors failed then there was the backup plan, the most desperate of all communications and a cry for help to the sky. John knew that God probably wasn't listening; in fact he wasn't even sure God was real at all. But it was worth a try, was it not? There wasn't anything to lose, and if Rosie did by some miracle recover from her illness then he would have all that much to gain. God helped those who called, he had been taught that way back when his mother had forced him to go to church every Sunday, dressed in his neat little shirt and tie. And he called, he screamed to that higher power, begging him to simply reach down from Heaven and heal his daughter. But what use was it, screaming, was God even listening? And just to think how many people across the world were screaming at him as well, begging him to heal their loved ones, promising that they'd be better once they got what they wanted, promising that the life he saved was the most important life of all. John thought Rosie was the most important, and yet another parent, a hundred parents, a thousand parents all thought that their dying children were the most important as well. If all they were asking for was a simple touch by God's healing palm he would be running around preventing things he had already set in motion, doing little favors for everyone on the globe until all were healed. It was be a disaster, of course it would be, if God could save he could most certainly kill, and John was certain that these diseases weren't just contracted by luck. God had a plan, a list maybe, of those who had to die, some young, some old, and it would seem that Rosie had ended up on that list not too long ago. So why would he save her, why would he even bother? Why did John fall onto his knees and pray every moment he got, funneling that Rosary bead after bead through his fingers and muttering prayers under his breath? What was he hoping for? A blessing, from who? And most importantly, why? Empty promises from priests and weird looks from atheists was all John received in return for his sacrifice, it didn't matter how many times he repeated the Hail Mary and the Our Father, Rosie was sick for a reason, and if science couldn't save her then John didn't know what he was holding out hope for. A miracle, he needed a miracle.