WHAT LIES BENEATH THE GRAVESTONE

Chapter 9: Bart's battle

In the hushed sanctuary of the hospital room, Bart lay ensconced in a cocoon of white linens and beeping monitors, each breath he took synchronized with the rhythmic hum of machinery. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptics, punctuated by the occasional whisper of nurses' footsteps in the corridor outside.

Jasmine, a steadfast sentinel, perched delicately on the edge of Bart's bed. Her silhouette was a comforting presence against the sterile backdrop, her spirit unwavering despite the storm of emotions that raged within her. Adela, a quiet force in her own right, settled into the chair nearby, her posture relaxed yet attentive, her gaze a wellspring of concern.

With a tenderness that belied the strength of her character, Jasmine reached out, her fingers wrapping around Bart's hand with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the clinical surroundings. "Are you alright, dear?" she inquired, her voice a soft melody that floated through the room, a soothing balm to the undercurrent of tension that lay beneath.

Bart's response was a mere whisper, a fragile sound that seemed almost too delicate for the turmoil that churned within him. "Yeah, I'm fine, Mum," he said, his words barely rising above the whisper of the air conditioning, yet heavy with unspoken thoughts and feelings.

Leaning forward, Jasmine's maternal instincts were etched with lines of worry, her eyes searching Bart's face for signs of the son she knew so well. "Bart, now tell me, why would you do that?" she implored, her voice now laced with a quiet intensity that demanded truth, her need for understanding as palpable as the concern that knit her brows together.

The question lingered in the air, a silent plea for insight into the actions that had led to this moment—a mother's quest to comprehend the depths of her son's decision to intend to take his own life

He turned his head away, a silent gesture that spoke volumes of his internal struggle. His voice, a blend of resignation and defiance, barely rose above the sterile beeps of the hospital equipment. "You wouldn't believe me even if I told you, so never mind," he muttered, a wall of self-preservation rising between them.

Jasmine, her heart aching with a mother's intuition, leaned in closer, her presence a beacon of unwavering support. Her eyes, brimming with empathy, sought to pierce the veil of Bart's defenses. "But Bart, I'm your mother. You can tell me anything, I promise I'll understand," she implored, her voice a tender lullaby attempting to soothe his frayed nerves.

The room fell silent, the tension palpable as Bart wrestled with his own demons. Finally, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world, he relented. "I swear, I've been seeing a monster, when I'm awake and in my dreams. It's been driving me crazy; I couldn't take it anymore. I thought... there was no other way," he confessed, his words tumbling out like stones from a dam long-held.

Jasmine and Adela shared a glance, a silent exchange fraught with worry and understanding. The revelation hung in the air, a specter of the unseen battles Bart faced. "When did you stop taking your medication?" Jasmine asked, her voice gentle yet firm, a mother's need to protect her child surfacing with quiet strength.

Bart's frustration simmered beneath the surface, a tempest contained within the confines of his hospital bed. "Two weeks ago," he admitted, his voice a crescendo of mixed emotions. "But that's not why... I know what I saw."

Jasmine's response was a tapestry of maternal care and empathy, her words steady and soothing. "You shouldn't have stopped taking them," she counseled, her tone not one of reprimand but of understanding.

The mention of antipsychotics ignited a spark of annoyance in Bart. "You mean those antipsychotics? Mom, I'm not crazy. I know what I saw," he insisted, his declaration a fortress against the doubts that assailed him.