It was december when it happened. The world was softly illuminated by the mute winter sun and a thin layer of snow frosted the grass. The sand strewn on the pavement crunched under my boots as I crossed the parking lot. My strides were brisk, my jaw was clenched tight.
And then the double doors swung open and the blinding white of the hospital's interior greeted me like an old friend. My voice were dull and empty as I delivered my name to the receptionest. Her eyes flashed with recognition and immediately softened to pity. She directed me unnessarily with a tilt of her head and I was off.
I comfort myself with the notion that it was beneficial. Dirly necessary. But in reality, I’m not positive the act evoked any good.
It’s hard watching someone die. You sit next to them, clench their clammy hand between your own and murmur condolences to a body that is at this point is no more than a shell with the ability to draw a breath. I watched them pull the plug.
I felt the hand change.
And it really is like they tell you - empty. Its just a thing. Not a person. Its just not. It takes only a minute.
Really, I chide myself, it was no surprise. The cancer was rigorous, he was a bender, there was no alternative.
But it doesn't make it any better.
It was February when Dad decided he was done. I could detect the change ever since Jem had gotten sick. The lines etched in his face grew deeper, steps slower, hair whittier. But it wasn’t just physical.
There was an abrupt end to family dinner. The small time he was home the man primarily resided in his office swamped with work. We saw each other little, spoke even less.
Like I said, it was February when Dad moved out.
He ignored the technicality I was a minor. Something broke inside of the man whose character was already deprived of strength. He yearned to start over - I let him.
I was presented a credit card, a respectable house off in the middle of nowhere in a small town called Beacon Hills. The remote location ensured that nobody would inquire to where my guardian was.
And that was that.
But it was May when I met Scott.
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WerewolfA teen wolf Fanfiction My name is Scarlet Grey. I am seventeen years old. I can do things that nobody should be able to do. And I am going to die. A story about love and loss, living and dying, and how to push on.
