John POV: It would seem that John was forever waiting for someone who would never come. Two years ago she walked out that door, two years ago he was left standing in a stunned silence, two years ago he wondered what on earth he had done wrong. Divorce was messy, it always was, but when Mary left she had taken everything without the help of a lawyer, in the eyes of the law they were still legally married and yet John hadn't seen anything of his wife since she left. He kept their daughter, he kept their apartment, she took the money. Somehow she thought that was a fair trade off, and yet here he sat, waiting for her to return, two years later. And he was as alone as ever, even more alone than that fateful day where he realized his actions had consequences, where he realized the moment life didn't go perfectly Mary simply couldn't take it anymore. Loneliness was a horrible feeling, it was a burden on the soul more than the body, it pained him to simply think that this apartment, which was once full with his family, was now virtually abandoned save for himself and the figures on the TV. Rosie's bedroom remained unoccupied, still with the bed made and the pictures on the walls, her stuffed animals lined up on the shelves exactly where she had left them, save for her favorites which now accompanied her in the hospital. She had asked for them specially, and John couldn't do anything but grant her every wish. Most nights he sat in the darkness, in his armchair that had finally configured to his body so that he could sit in the ever growing imprint in the fabric day in and day out. The TV flickered with people he didn't recognize, saying things he didn't understand and following a plot that he hadn't been paying attention to. His dinner had simply been a chicken sandwich from McDonald's and a very lousy one at that. John had never learned to cook for himself and ever since Rosie had left he hadn't been making much of an effort. He knew that she was being well fed at the hospital and so he didn't mind eating garbage to bide his time and to keep himself going. It was getting harder and harder to simply function, to go to work, to eat, to sleep, he only ever wanted to be by Rosie's bedside, to read her stories and brush her hair and talk to her while he still could. Terminal diseases weren't named just for dramatic effect, and he knew that the clock was winding slowly and the countdown was nearing the end. His poor daughter was so strong, at only five years old she was fighting every day of her life just to live another hour, another minute, and what was John doing? Watching sitcoms and trying to force himself to eat another French fry? He was pathetic, he was useless, and sometimes he wondered just how he would go on once he was truly alone. John had turned to the Catholic church not for himself but for Rosie. He didn't want to return to God simply because he wanted someone to talk to; he wanted someone to help him. If doctors failed then there was the backup plan, the most desperate of all communications and a cry for help to the sky. John knew that God probably wasn't listening; in fact he wasn't even sure God was real at all. But it was worth a try, was it not? There wasn't anything to lose, and if Rosie did by some miracle recover from her illness then he would have all that much to gain. God helped those who called, he had been taught that way back when his mother had forced him to go to church every Sunday, dressed in his neat little shirt and tie. And he called, he screamed to that higher power, begging him to simply reach down from Heaven and heal his daughter. But what use was it, screaming, was God even listening? And just to think how many people across the world were screaming at him as well, begging him to heal their loved ones, promising that they'd be better once they got what they wanted, promising that the life he saved was the most important life of all. John thought Rosie was the most important, and yet another parent, a hundred parents, a thousand parents all thought that their dying children were the most important as well. If all they were asking for was a simple touch by God's healing palm he would be running around preventing things he had already set in motion, doing little favors for everyone on the globe until all were healed. It was be a disaster, of course it would be, if God could save he could most certainly kill, and John was certain that these diseases weren't just contracted by luck. God had a plan, a list maybe, of those who had to die, some young, some old, and it would seem that Rosie had ended up on that list not too long ago. So why would he save her, why would he even bother? Why did John fall onto his knees and pray every moment he got, funneling that Rosary bead after bead through his fingers and muttering prayers under his breath? What was he hoping for? A blessing, from who? And most importantly, why? Empty promises from priests and weird looks from atheists was all John received in return for his sacrifice, it didn't matter how many times he repeated the Hail Mary and the Our Father, Rosie was sick for a reason, and if science couldn't save her then John didn't know what he was holding out hope for. A miracle, he needed a miracle.
With the power from what little sleep he had managed to get John was able to pull himself out of bed at six o'clock, his shades pulled to block out any early morning light that might burn his eyes as he crawled from the depths of his cozy blankets and into the cold, cold world. John stumbled to the closet that was still only half full, his hangars only hung on his respective side, as if he was still conscientious of Mary's space even after she had been gone for so long. He still only lay on one side of the bed, he still only ate on one side of the table, he still set out two cups of coffee in the morning only to fill up one. She was still here even after she had left, after how many years of living together her presence had imprinted onto John's everyday life so effectively that he couldn't rid himself of the habits she had forced him into. The house felt empty with only half of it filled, and yet sometimes it was easier for John to look at the empty second half and tell himself that she might just come back, and that when she did, he would be ready for her. John pulled on one of his white tee shirts, stained with grease that had popped from the grill, and combed out his hair to the best of his abilities. He brushed his teeth with his blue toothbrush, leaving the now nearly moldy pink one alone in the cup, and pushed the flowery deodorant away to get his own. John then checked his reflection in the mirror, trying to count the bags under his eyes before realizing that he obviously had somewhere to be. After a rather pathetic breakfast of coffee and stale pretzels John was out the door, grabbing his keys and jumping into the beat up red minivan he had bought with Mary before Rosie had been born. They had both decided they needed more space now that they had a daughter, they expected they would be carting her and her friends around to play rehearsals and soccer practices and after school band, maybe they would get a dog, maybe they would have another kid. When John had bought this van he never would've predicted that he would be driving it alone. It had seen some things in its day, including a tree, and so the front bumper was dented heavily and yet the repairs were simply too much to bother with at the moment. All the money John made was funneled into the hospital like a feeding tube, every single dime he made, every overtime he worked; it all went to Rosie, to get her healthy, to get her back in his car and his house again. Some people claimed that paying so much to keep Rosie alive was simply a waste of money, and that since she was going to die anyway it was useless to pay the hospital for fancy treatments they had already warned him wouldn't work. And yet John couldn't lose hope, he couldn't give up, because as soon as he stopped hoping she would be dead before the breath even left her body. If John didn't believe she could survive then she just might not. It was worth the money, wasn't it, one more day? One more month? One more year? John was sure that once she did pass he would give his soul just for one more smile, so why stop now and regret it for the rest of his miserable existence? He shouldn't look back and think he could've done more, he was running himself ragged just trying to keep up with the payments and with the commitments, hence the six thirty shift at the diner where he worked. John wasn't a wealthy man, never in his life had he had an excess of money that wasn't getting spent on bills, debts, taxes, or essentials, and yet now more than ever his pockets were running dry. John was starting to build up a career in a construction business; however that had been before Mary had left. When that door had closed on that chapter of his life (quite literally) John had let himself fall farther than he had even climbed. He lost his job, lost his dignity, lost his sanity. He could barely take care of himself much less Rosie, until finally his sister stopped by and whipped him into shape. If it hadn't been for Harry, John might still be sitting in his sweatpants and growing a beard and belly, drinking to forget what he never knew in the first place and eating to replace the hole that had just caved in on his life. Now of course Harry, who was stubborn enough to make sure she was always the deadbeat of the family, had saved him from whatever monster he had managed to turn into. She made him exercise, sober up, get a job, get some money, spend time with his daughter, and even get a girlfriend. It had been a rigorous process and yet he knew that whatever he had done to shape up his life was about to be erased once more. He had cleaned up for Rosie last time, and now John knew that when he lost her he would have no one left to fight for. When he lost Rosie, he would have no need to go on. John pulled into the parking lot five minutes late, running into the restaurant in a frantic hurry just to clock in before anyone noticed just how late he had arrived. His fellow coworkers were milling around, cleaning tables and turning on lights in the display cases, arranging cakes and pies in glass and stacking the menus on the counter. Working at the diner was never glamorous, especially when he was stuck in the back all day, cooking people's food on the large steaming grill, getting yelled at by fellow cooks and making somewhere below minimum wage. Now John wasn't a chief so much as he was a griller, he could cook burgers and steaks and eggs without burning them too badly, and yet that was about as far as his expertise stretched. He always had to resort to fast food for his own meals simply because he had neither the food, the supplies, or the motivation to grill himself a burger or make himself hash browns for breakfast. He was doing that for other people, making sure they all had a spectacular breakfast while he had only eaten enough pretzels to keep him conscious until lunch time. When John walked into the diner, which was still just beginning to open, he was met by a chorus of half-asleep men and women all wishing him good morning. He mumbled back, shuffling to the back of the counter so that he could grab his apron and sneak into the kitchen before he really had to talk to anyone. He wasn't antisocial of course, and he was perfectly friendly with all who worked here, he just wasn't real good friends with any of them. All of his coworkers respected him of course, they knew that he was a reliable worker who could grill to perfection, and because of that they asked no questions. His fellow grill mate was a fellow by the name of Tobias Gregson, a very loud, obnoxious man who seemed to live his life by whatever direction fate decided to take him. He had no real ambitions, only money, and yet he still didn't seem capable of moving his ambitions out of the kitchen of this meager diner and pursuing something that would actually make his life more meaningful. Not that John was complaining of course, he made good company, especially when John was so down in the dumps he didn't want to socialize all that much. Tobias took to whistling when the silence was overwhelming, simply because he didn't want to annoy John and yet he hated to hear nothing but the sizzling grill. John seemed to be one of the last ones in, as he tied his apron he saw all of his fellow cooks getting their hands washed and their working space clean, waiting for them to flip the sign and let the costumers in.
"Have a good night John?" Tobias wondered, leaning against the grill which was thankfully turned off, cleaning one of his spatulas that had acquired a fine layer of grease on the metal.
"I suppose so." John said with a shrug. "Nothing happened but nothing is better than tragedy."
"Always the optimist there Watson." Tobias laughed, tossing away the sodden paper towel and examining the now gleaming spatula in the light. John just glared at him, it was simply too early for his sarcastic remarks, and went over to turn on the burners. Thankfully Tobias was intelligent enough to jump out of the way, however a hole burnt in his pants would make for a very interesting morning indeed. John's head was already ponding with exhaustion, he hadn't slept all that well last night and all of this excitement wasn't doing anything to wake him up. He had the worst habit of going to bed at a reasonable hour only to lie in bed for hours on end, staring up into the darkness and listening to the silence. He hated the silence, it let the thoughts seep into his brain, it left nothing to distract himself from the tragedies he was able to conjure up in his mind if he wasn't careful. Sometimes he fell asleep with the radio playing or the TV on, just to make sure he focused on the voices that weren't inside of his own head before he was finally able to doze off. Last night he had been pondering everything, from Mary to Rosie to that strange priest that he had met just yesterday. John knew that he would probably be alienated simply because he was a recently restored Catholic, and yet that priest had worn a very curious look in his eye, almost as if something about John interested him. Of course he hadn't been unfriendly, quite the opposite, and yet Father Holmes didn't strike John as a priest at all, more like a man who was forced to don the outfit and go through the motions. He had hope, of course, that this priest might be able to help him. Since there were so many cries for help John was quite sure that a priest's voice in the mix may just help Rosie more than his own voice crying to Heaven for the first time in how many years. Maybe God will listen to one of his most devoted followers and take his word more seriously than a simply parishioner. Work seemed to drag on that day, the morning shift was always the worst and he was working until one that day. That made for many long hours sweating over the grill, taking orders, cooking orders, putting out orders, all to make those snooty and rude customers happy. John and Tobias worked their hardest of course, knowing that despite the many downsides of this job they would still be paid for their struggles. Tobias would probably buy more beer or more internet connections while John would pay for the next breakthrough in research to save his daughter's life. When one o'clock finally rolled around John threw his apron back on the pile and clocked out, saying nothing more than a goodbye to his fellow coworkers before climbing into his car and driving down the road to the little town that lay not a mile up the road. It had all his go to shops, and today he decided that he would stop at the party supply store before making the long journey to the hospital. He parked his car and ran inside very quickly, purchasing a couple of pink and purple balloons (Rosie's favorite colors) and stuffing them all in the backseat of his car. They should cheer her up for a little bit after he was gone, the poor girl got so lonely sometimes, despite all the nurses' efforts to keep her occupied. She was only five years old, and the doctors claimed that she would be very lucky if she was able to make it to six. The disease was worsening, it was persisting, and there seemed to be nothing anyone could do to stop it. Sooner than later time would not be on their side, and Rosie would fall prey to the same beast that lurked inside of many of the patients staying long term at that hospital.