"YOU should start planning the funeral," Henry's doctor advised.
Both my Dad and I had been brought into an adjoining room, away from Henry's listening ears. It was small and stuffy. Much like my tiny room back at the Training Grounds, there were no windows, but the hospital had made at least an attempt to appear as if there were.
A set of white drapes hung around a picture frame that had a generic landscape picture taken inside. The light wood of the frame matched the light wood of the table and chairs in the room.
Henry's doctor, Dr. Lud, came to check on Henry's progression earlier. He took a brief look at him and declared he was beginning to show signs of decline. Henry was lucky enough to still be cognizant of his surroundings.
But Dr. Lud assured us that would not be for long.
Henry would more than likely slip into a coma and hang on for another day before death finally granted a reprieve.
Because of this, Dr. Lud asked both Dad and me to step out of the room. He had directed us to a small conference room, marked with the name Grief Counseling.
I was not prepared to hear the doctor be so blunt in his wording. I was not prepared for him to tell us to already begin funeral preparations. Henry was still alive and—albeit—unwell. He wasn't dead yet, but Henry's doctor wanted us to act like he had already passed.
It would be easier this way, I told myself. It would be easier for us all.
And, I knew there might be some truth to that.
When Mom died, we had no warning. We were all wildly unprepared to make all the preparations for a funeral. As a result, we ended up spending too much on things we didn't need while also not getting all the details just right for Mom's final resting place.
She had not left a will, so it was left to us—Henry, Dad, and me—to plan her funeral and make all the necessary arrangements.
Really, though, it was left to just me.
Dad had been too much of a mess to be able to even think about planning the funeral without bursting into sporadic and never-ending tears. Grandpa had taken to comforting Dad during that period of time while I made the preparations. When Grandma was having one of her better days, she'd lend a helping hand. But Mom's death had really thrown her for a loop.
Mom often dropped by Grandma and Grandpa's house to leave leftovers we had from dinner—at least when it was not Reaper season. Grandma did not take to this change well.
None of us had.
"He's not even dead yet!" Dad's fists collided with the table. His jaw clenched. "My son is not dead."
"I know," the doctor acknowledged with a sigh. This clearly was not Dr. Lud's first time delivering such horrific news. And it, most certainly, was not the first time he had encountered such a reaction. "Mr. Campbell, I know this is a hard time for your family."
"The hell you do," Dad growled, shaking his head.
"Dad," I whispered, reaching out for him. I touched his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze, but Dad was agitated. He moved my hand off his arm and kept fervently shaking his head from side to side.
"I'm sorry, Violet. I can't. I can't do this," he gushed, scooting his chair back so he could make a mad dash for the door. "I'm sorry," he repeated one final time before the frosted door to the Grief Counseling room closed shut.
Sighing, I wrung my hands together. I looked up at the doctor. "Do you... Do you have..."
I couldn't seem to find the right words to say, but Dr. Lud understood what I was saying all the same. "I do have some resources handy." He pulled a few brooches out from underneath his white coat. "Take your time going through everything. This doesn't have to be a sprint, okay?"
I nodded my head as I read over the title of the first brochure: Your Family Member Has Died. Now What?
He's not dead, I muttered to myself. He's not dead.
It felt so wrong to be planning Henry's funeral when he was still alive. I understood why Dad had run right out of the room. I would have, too. If I had been afforded the choice.
"Do you want me to call someone?" Dr. Lud asked as he rose from his chair, which was across the table. "You shouldn't have to go through this alone."
I shook my head, keeping my eyes glued to the pamphlets in front of me.
"Very well," he said before he left.
When I heard the door come close for a second time today, my head slid to the tabletop, resting on the cool surface. I allowed myself to cry, to sob. My little brother was dying, and there was nothing any of us could do about it.
Henry didn't deserve to die. But neither did anyone who got Lupoxia or anyone who fell victim to the Reapers.
It was clear, more than ever. Beta Finn had been right. Bluestrike was dying alongside its members.
And it was a matter of time before everyone I knew—including myself—crumbled down with the pack.
Picking my head up from the table, I wiped my tears away, took a deep breath, and then flipped through the pamphlets. I already knew most of the arrangements I would make for Henry.
There wasn't much we could afford.
He would get the cheapest flowers, cheapest casket, and cheapest embalming. I'd have to dig through our family photos to find the right picture to highlight Henry's smile. We could reuse some of the decorations from Mom's funeral. I knew Dad still had them somewhere in the house.
Preoccupied with my grief, I did not notice the door to the room opening and someone sitting beside me until they spoke. "Violet."
My head shot to my side, where my best friend, Olivia, stood. She was not supporting her signature smile. Instead, she looked downcast. Henry had been like a little brother to her—sometimes, they got along more than Henry and I did.
"Liv," I breathed, and she spared no time engulfing me in a hug.
We tried to joke about how this was not how we wanted our first meeting post the placement results to go, but we both didn't have it in us to make light of the situation.
I was thankful to have Olivia by my side. She wasted no time taking matters into her own hands. She hunted down a phone from one of the nurse's stations and set it up in the grief room.
We would take turns trying to call different funeral homes about arrangements for my brother, but many of them were booked. The ones that weren't booked were far too expensive.
Sitting back in my chair, I complained, "We're going to go into debt just trying to lay him to rest."
"Not to mention the cost of his hospital stay," Olivia reminded.
"Shit." I sunk into my chair.
"I could try and conjure some money," Olivia half-heartedly offered as a solution.
"Isn't that illegal?"
"Only just slightly," Olivia responded with a coy smile. "Orrrrr," her voice trailed.
"Or?" I raised my eyebrows.
"Or," she repeated, shifting her weight in her chair. "Or we could ask your mate."
"No," I shook my head. "Absolutely not."
"Why not?"
"Because," I used as my explanation.
"Because?" She inquired.
Sighing, I said, "Because I don't need his help."
"You might—"
"Olivia," I warned.
She put her hands up in the air in surrender. "Sorry, sorry. I just—he's got to be loaded, right?"
Tilting my head to the side, I responded, "I don't actually know, but I think he owns all the land in Bluestrike."
"Well, if that's the case, he should make himself useful," Olivia declared, puffing out her chest.
"If he was good at making himself useful, we might not be in this mess," I said as I banged my head on the table.
"You mean figuratively, right?"
Biting my lip, I paused to say, "I think so? But maybe also literally. I'm not too sure."
"Violet!" Olivia's eyes bulged.
I picked up a few of the pamphlets and threw them in her direction. "Pick out the food. Maybe go for something depressing, make everyone feel like they'd want to be the one six feet under instead."
"That's mildly disturbing," Olivia blinked at me as I maneuvered to the door. "Where are you going?"
"I need to get some fresh air," I explained, not waiting to see her response as I left the room.
I let the door close behind me, leaning against it for support. I sucked a deep breath in. I was not going to cry. I was not going to cry. I was not going to cry until I got outside. I was not going to cry until I was out of earshot of Dad, Henry, and Olivia.
The weight of the past couple of days weighed heavily on me. Not only was my brother on the brink of death but there was the reality my mate had gone to great depths to try and bring his dead mate back to life.
All his comforting words now felt meaningless. He had not moved on, but I could not get him out of my brain.
As I began to strut down the endless hallway, hands clenched at my side, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. A very familiar voice called after me, "Violet."
Okay, maybe I was going to cry after all.