Tangled In Strings

Chapter Twenty-Seven

It's a look of complete understanding. A look a person can only give you when they stare through your chest, and possess the power to tear it out without a single move against you. A look that finds every fault, and for a split moment, erases their existence.

It's a look that shreds you to pieces, to only regenerate the splintered remains, puzzling them back together, because only the person who can stare at you like that, can work their way around the mess without fucking everything up.

And it's the look Giovanni is giving me right now, at the other side of the room.

I can detect it without a doubt, and it's not fleeting. He holds it, and I know it's the real thing.

Norman said this is rare. It's not normal.

And god, I know it. I do.

I leave my place by the bed, and walk until I'm running to him.

Giovanni's arms surround me, his hands holding my head into his chest gently. I grasp onto his shirt, wetting the material with my cheeks. I silently beg him to hold me tighter, and as if he can read my thoughts, he does, his head tilting into my hair.

My eyes close, an exhale of relief leaving my mouth as I press myself into the curve between his throat and chin, tucked safety in his arms.

"I love you," I whisper.

...

Even the doctor has nothing more to do. He's standing in the corner of the room, a grave look that's been on his face for hours. None of us have gone to sleep, or even left the room.

Just a nurse, a doctor, Giovanni and me.

I've sat here, waiting for Norman to resurface, waiting for the chance to finish our conversation, tell him all I still need to, and the longer he remains unconscious, the more I begin to believe I won't ever get to.

The nurse is seated on the loveseat, a book on her lap, still unopened. Giovanni is underneath me in the chair, holding me like a child in his lap. With the calm steady beat in his chest to ground me, my eyes continue to fight sleep, staring at Norman's body on the bed. In sleep, his breathing is irregular. His arms have darkened, giving the skin a blue undertone. Five minutes ago, the span between his breaths was twenty seconds.

That's how long it took him to breathe.

It made me think of how many people there are in this world that have witnessed this exact same moment. How many people have had to endure years of watching someone go through this kind of pain.

And I wonder how many people prayed for the ones they love to die, like I am now.

I want it to end. I want him to find peace, and relief.

I want him to die without having to open his eyes and feel one more ounce of hurt.

I pray for him to die in his sleep, so he's gone and free from all of this.

As much as I want to let him know I'm here, that his daughter is here and forgives him at the very end, I want the end to be quick far more. No struggled breaths, no frantic eyes, no fear.

Death has been a fragment built deep in my marrow, a familiar memory, embedded into the very fabric of who I am. I've lost a mother I knew I loved deeply, and a mother I didn't even know existed, but love now. I knew the concept of death from a young age, because it was always so close within reach.

But I've never seen death up this close.

It's a fucking terrifying thing.

I keep remembering a moment. It continues to appear in my mind, like an alarm you cannot seem to shut off. The day Norman showed up in Detroit. It was the day of the funeral. My father was already in prison, awaiting sentencing. There were three people there, and most of the savings that were left to me, a new adult, were spent on that funeral. I spoke to no one, and no one spoke to me, because they didn't know me. I didn't know them.