Author Games: Return To Seasons

Task Seven: Silent Night/SF - TheDarkHorse [5]

SONG: Away In A Manger

District 1 Male - HEATH HAWTHORN [5]

The waiting room felt cold, and not just because it was in a Winter District. Plastic and metal seemed to make up everything in the room, even the arms and legs of the tables and chairs. In One, a chair like the one my husband and I were sitting in would never be even thought of. The back would be made out of fabric, and there would be cushions, and the arms and legs would be made out of wood. More importantly, I would never have been in this position at all in One. 

There were deaths in District One, someone of my age had been around for plenty of them. But even if deaths came suddenly, they came certainly. There was no waiting around to see if the beloved would awake, not even a facility designed to take care of those who were that sick. Healthiness seemed to come hand-in-hand with living in District One. Maybe it had something to do with the complete absence of these deplorable  metal and plastic chairs. 

"The Hawthorns," a man spoke. Looking up, I recognized the leader of the Rebellion, the one who had put our son in that position. If Heath didn't survive, there would be hell to pay, and I would be collecting. He'd cleaned up, finally bothering to put a shirt on. Glancing around the room, he finally locked eyes with my husband, certainly the calmer of the two of us at the moment. "I'll show you to your child's bed.

Our footsteps echoed throughout the room, through the flimsy plastic curtain, towards Heath's bed. If he was awake, he'd hear our footsteps, although I was certain that he wasn't allowed to get out of bed yet. Hope, almost as tangible as the anger I had been feeling, bubbled up inside of me, ready to overflow at any given moment. I clutched even tighter at Clover's hand, praying to someone, anyone, that our son would be alright. I'd never been a religious woman, but if a god saved Heath, I'd devote the rest of my life to worship him. 

Besides our footsteps, there was near-silence. Nobody spoke, as though this makeshift hospital were hallowed ground. The beeping of machinery, I figured, was little comfort to any of us. The beeping could be reassurance of any of these children's continued lives, or of their deaths. I desperately hoped for the former. As though Clover could read my mind, he spoke up. "What do all the beeps mean?"

"I'm not the best person to ask about this," Rudy said, his voice seeming to overpower the quiet room. It was clear that he was a soldier and not a doctor. "But they're monitoring the soldiers' vitals: heartbeat, breathing, that sort of thing."

The mere mention of Heath's fighting made me clutch Clover's hand even tighter. How tight I was holding his hand, I was surprised that it hadn't altogether gone numb. Clover wasn't one to complain though, he never had been, so it was possible that he couldn't feel his hand at all, just he didn't want to mention it.

"Heath's staying in here," Rudy announced, as though it was impossible for him to speak below a shout. Another flimsy plastic curtain separated us from Heath, probably to maintain the illusion of privacy. It was no use, I could see the legs of his cot beneath the curtain, and hear the beeping as clearly as if I was standing inside. 

Rudy pulled back the curtain. 

*

The silence that suddenly overcame the house was somewhat unnerving. After hours of the babies crying, at first together, then taking turns between resting and wailing, it seemed impossible that the two babies were asleep at once. What if one of them had died? I knew the thought was ridiculous, that Clover was in the same room as the twins, and he would never let something like that happen. Still, I felt like I had to stand up and walk towards the room. 

My muscles were sore, to say the least, from hours of labor, my entire body was exhausted. I had to lean against the wall to walk at some points, but even the thought of one of my children being hurt was enough to keep me going. Thankfully, our house was small. Heath and Erica would have to share a room until they moved out, but I was certain that they wouldn't mind. I suppose it was my motherly instincts. 

Stepping into the room, I couldn't help but feel like I was breaking into some sort of incredibly serene moment. Clover stood, his hair disheveled, his clothes messy, simply staring at the two children. Erica, only discernible by the extra fluff of hair on her head, lay in a crib on the right. I'd swaddled her, since Clover hadn't quite figured out how to yet. Her breathing seemed calm, her chest rising and falling steadily. Heath's breathing was less steady, but he breathed nonetheless. 

I'd never seen a baby sleep so peacefully. 

*

Heath was peaceful in his coma. If I closed my eyes, I could almost convince myself that he was the same child I had held in my arms so many years ago. His chest rose and fell, unsteadily, but it rose and fell nonetheless. Clover ran his fingers through Heath's hair. I remembered how hard it had been for us to get that dye, but Heath had wanted it, and Clover was willing to do anything to make sure that he got it. We'd only drank water for a month, so that juice and milk could last longer.  

The dye was starting to wear off now, the roots of his hair back to their natural shade of brown. I wondered if Heath had noticed it yet. Heath shuddered slightly at Clover's touch, a momentary hope that he could wake up. But it all stayed the same: the incessant beeping, the rise and fall of his chest, and his eyes staying closed. If only he woke up as suddenly as he did back then. I would have cried, but I'd long-since used up all my tears. I prayed Heath hadn't used up all his years. 

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