she's my winona; brendon urie au

two

The hospital is cold and sad, just like any other hospital.  From the moment I step into the building, I feel instantly more depressed than I already was while in the parking lot.  It must be the sent of dead skin on the linoleum floor, but whatever it is-I don't like it.  Oh, god.  Chloe would hate this, I absentmindedly think.  Oh, god, I wonder if Chloe can even hate anymore. It's not about that, though.  Not anymore, anyways.  I can't seem to bring myself to realize it.  I'm not really walking anymore at this point.  I'm really just trudging along, dragging my feet and counting down the seconds that pass by.  One Mississippi.  Two Mississippi.  Three Mississippi. The things that suck at hospitals vary in severity.  It's surprising how many of them have nothing to do with why you're at the hospital.  There's the smell of chemicals and depression, there's the sadness that can't even be masked by the nurses, and there's your shadow reminding you that you're real, and not a ghost haunting the hospital.  In that order-backwards.  It's kind of ironic, but also not at all.  I don't even make sense anymore.  I'm in the wrong kind of hospital.  It almost makes me want to shout, "Please put the doctor on the phone cause I'm not making any sense!"

Blame everyone but me for this mess.  When I make it to the waiting room, it takes me a good four minutes to decide if I want to continue hiding behind the fish tank or if I want to try to find my family.  Oh, another thing that sucks about hospitals-fucking fish?  Really?  Oh, look.  My cancer is gone, thanks fish.  No, it doesn't work like that.  I don't even know why I'm so angry and passionate about this, but by god, I am.  I finally decide that hiding behind the fish tank is a bad idea.  First, I'll look like an idiot (Do I even care at this point?).  And second, the glass is see-through.  I gradually come out from behind the fish tank to see my mother wearing her reading glasses over a saddened, concerned look.  I slump into a chair one away from hers.  It takes me a while to realize I'm crying.  My mother doesn't say a word, doesn't even lift her head.  Instead, she puts her hand on mine.  This would've been a sweet Hallmark moment if she didn't do it for her own sake.  I kind of get it, though.  I can't blame her.  We're all fucked, and it takes a lot to figure out if we even care at all.  Desperate times call for desperate measures, and I can't think of another time more desperate than this. 

"M-mom," I whisper, trying to avoid eye contact. 

My mother looks up from her lap and at my face, although I can only see her out of the corner of my eye.  I know she wants me to look at her, to face my fears (literally), but I don't even know if I can bare doing that right now.  Could I handle it?  It's weird, I feel like I ask myself that a lot.  A lot of times, it's not a very rewarding habit.

"Yes, sweetie." She says. 

It's fake.  I know it is.  I would have been so much more pleased with her response if it wasn't fake.  She's lying through her teeth, she's letting her breathing slip.  She's falling apart, but this time more fast.  She's not okay, and I know it.  I can't be mad and I try to understand.  My mom-she's trying, she is.  I can't be mad at her because I'm not. 

"Are they okay?"

I almost don't even want her to answer me.  If she says yes, logics tell me she's lying.  If she says no, then, it's no.  It takes a lot to hold back my hands so I retain from throwing them over her mouth, muffling her words and keeping my brain okay with it's imagination.  That sentence even stresses me out.  But, I digress.

"Well... they're holding on," she sighs.

I want to yell at her, I really do.  I want to grab her face and scream, shake her shoulders, and maybe scream some more.  I'm always so angry at my mother, I've always kind of been.  Is that why you moved out? Sure, sure it is. 

"That's good." I lie.

The doctors emerge from the double doors.  It wasn't for us though.  It was for the older woman sitting next to us.  Side note: they looked nothing like you expected.  The man looked tired, like it was the end of his shift.  He looked prepared and expectant.  Like he's done this too many times.  He wasn't old, or young.  Probably his mid-thirties.  Probably wondering why he's doing this.  Doc doesn't look sad like me.  He looks apathetic, besides his obvious sleep deprivation. 

"Mrs. Wright," he calls in a deep voice.

The older woman looks up, ensued by standing and walking over to the doctor. 

"You may see your husband now,"

After that, I kind of tune out of Death Radio.  I try to forget where I am for the moment being.  I envy sitting in silence, without a thought on my mind.  But there will always be the ringing in my ears.  The sound of feet sweeping the floors and shouts cascading the hospital.  That's something that'll never fade.  Even when I'm home.  I'll be lying in bed, turned on my side, closing my eyes tighter and tighter, but the voices-the shouts and the ringing-it'll all only get louder.  And that's just if I make it out alive. 

The day passes by without any signs of progression, or at least that's what the doctors said.  They did mention that Marley was in stable condition, and that he had minor scrapes and bruises that needed to be cared for.  Any more people in the room would overwhelm him, so they decided not to let anyone in.  After violently protesting, I sat down quietly with a huff.  If Marley, a one-year-old survived, then two twenty-five year-olds should be able to, right?  The news of Marley's stable condition made me brighten up, but I almost couldn't believe that he was there and alive, considering I couldn't see him and all I'm filled with is doubt. 

The day rolls by softly, and ends with me falling asleep in a waiting room chair.  My vans dangle off the armrest as my body contorts into a merely acceptable sleeping position.

Good night, don't the potential death of your Sister and Brother-In-Law bite!

God, how morbid.

A/N: Hello.  How are you guys?  This piece wasn't so much of an 'event' part, per say.  It was more like a filler chapter, to get you to understand how everyone is feeling.  If you didn't quite catch it, I'll let you know, otherwise.

So, the idea is that Carly is going through a tough time, she's depressed and pessimistic.  But, also, she kind of knows what the outcome will be.  She's a smart girl, and she knows the probabilities.  She's logical, and she doesn't want to be disappointed (even though she will be with the way she's thinking).

Also, it's to show that Carly's relationship with her mother isn't quite perfect.  Carly feels like her mother was part of the reason she had a troubled childhood that carried on into her adulthood.  Carly and her mother just don't get along, but Carly is still a sweet girl who wouldn't dream of hurting anyone's feelings, so she suppresses them instead of yelling at her mom.  And the thing is, Carly's emotions towards the accident are inflicting her thoughts on everything else, and that was supposed to be accentuated through the idea of how she was thinking of her mom.

Thank you all so so much for reading.  It honestly means a lot to me.  I'm glad if you got the main point, and if you didn't then I hope my authors note helped with that.  I apologize for the length of this, I just didn't want anyone confused. 

-Emma