Honestly, I have no fucking clue what I’m doing. All I know is that I need to gather 500 years of human life for Ambrose before I’m free from him forever, and I want to do it as quickly as possible.
As soon as I cross the threshold of the automatic sliding doors into the cool, sterile hospital, my stomach churns.
I hate hospitals. The waiting rooms where every person is either agitated or exhausted, the overworked staff who still manage to be everywhere at once, the subtle scent of disinfectant permeating the air in every room. It’s all overwhelming in the worst way. At least the last time I was in a hospital, I was too worried about my own life-or-death situation to notice much else.
I press my hand against my chest and sense the weight ofthe necklace against my skin. Ambrose had said I might be able to channel a small portion of his power through the artifact. I guess now’s a good time to test it out.
I focus my attention on the stone tucked beneath my shirt, willing myself to blend in as I visualize peoples’ attention shooting past me rather than landing on me.
But there’s no real way to know if it works, though the faint hum of energy through my veins lets me know that the magic is doing something. It’s either that or my anxiety.
For a while, I stand against a wall and survey the people in the waiting room, taking note of those who look particularly distraught. When a nurse comes out and asks a family to follow her to a different waiting room, I slip behind the four of them and walk as silently as I can manage, staying far enough away that I don’t attract their attention but close enough that a random passerby might think I’m with them. I’m not sure who they’re here for, but the thick tension emanating from the group indicates fearful uncertainty.
One of the women—a brunette who looks to be only a few years older than me—has red-rimmed eyes and a panicked expression, while the man whose hand she’s holding seems stoic, but his leg hasn’t stopped bouncing with worry since they’ve been here. The other couple that’s been huddled in beside them has been sending a flurry of text messages and talking to each other in low voices, likely updating others on whatever has happened.
The two women bear a slight resemblance to each other, and the blonde keeps putting a hand on the brunette’s shoulder as if to reassure her. The men are mostly silent. Waiting.
Maybe one of the women’s parents is back there. It would make sense why both of them are here with their husbands. And I hate that I’m calculating how many yearsI’d get from someone old enough to be their parent. Twenty years? Forty if I’m really lucky.
This is so fucked up.
The only solace I can find in this scenario is that if someone is dying anyway, this won’t do any additional harm, even as thewrongnessof it all coils in my gut.
When we reach the smaller waiting room tucked into the end of a hallway, the nurse says something in a hushed tone to the brunette woman, who nods before gingerly lowering herself into a chair.
There’s only one other person back here—an elderly woman who seems to be alone. She’s reading a worn paperback book and tapping her foot incessantly.
It’s so fucking quiet I can hardly stand it.
I keep my focus on channeling the power of not-quite-invisibility, and though eyes pass over me, nobody really seems to give me more than a passing glance. They notice me in the same way they might notice the lamp in the corner.
After what feels like hours but is probably only twenty minutes, a doctor appears in the entryway.
His voice is too gentle when he asks, “Mr. and Mrs. McConnell?”
The couple I’ve been watching shoots to their feet and rushes to him. Their companions stand and follow closely, squeezing each other’s hands so tightly the woman’s knuckles are white.
I don’t hear all the words, but I catch enough.
Severe traumatic brain injury.
No chance of recovery.
I’m so sorry.
The woman’s wails of grief ricochet off the walls of the small room. The sound is like a knife twisting in my chest.
“No,” she sobs, “my baby.No. He can’t be gone. This isn’treal.” She shakes her head furiously, as if she can shake away the reality of what’s happening, vacillating between anguish and disbelief.
I was wrong. It’s not her parent that’s dying.
It’s her son.
Silent tears stream down her husband’s face, and his chest shakes with the sobs he’s desperately trying to hold in. He wraps her in his arms so tightly I’m afraid they both might break.
My heart splinters into a million pieces.
When the doctor asks if they’d like to come say goodbye, they say yes with agony written all over their expressions, and the four of them follow him down the hall. The sudden silence of the tiny waiting room crushes me.
