The hospital is bright.
People move, life continues around me as though mine isn't currently hanging by a thread behind those doors.
I stare at them, just waiting for a scrap of news. The worst part is that there's nothing to do, other than to wait, and waiting has always been its own kind of torture.
The doors stay closed, and every second feels longer than the last.
I keep seeing her on the floor, her lips turning blue, the sound she made when she couldn't breathe.
I close my eyes, just for a second, and immediately see it again. My wife, the woman I love more than I have ever thought possible, lying cold and small on our floor, struggling to breathe.
"She's going to be okay,” Ciro says as he comes to stand beside me.
I don't answer, because I don't know that. Not yet, and until somebody comes through those doors and tells me she's okay, I'm not believing a fucking thing.
Minutes pass, or maybe it’s longer. I don’t know. Every second stretches, and every minute feels like an hour.
At some point my father arrives with Vittoria, Valentina, Sofia and Elisabetta.
Valentina's eyes are red. Vittoria looks pale, and my father looks exactly the way I feel.
He doesn't say anything when he reaches me, he just comes to stand beside me. A silent reminder that I'm not carrying this alone.
"Giovanni and Marco wanted to be here," he says after a moment, his voice rough. "But I need them investigating."
I nod because I need answers. I need to know how the fuck this happened.
Nobody talks much after that. The waiting settles over all of us. It’s heavy and relentless.
I pace back and forth, over and over again. Anger and helplessness are threatening to swallow me whole. I need an outlet for it, but more importantly, I need to see my wife, alive and breathing.
"Sit down," Ciro says eventually.
I keep pacing. "No."
I hear his heavy sigh. "You're going to wear a hole in the floor."
Like I give a fuck? I’ll buy them a whole new wing if they fix my wife. "Then the floor's going to have a hole in it."
He doesn't push it, he knows me, and knows how very close I am to losing it.
Forty minutes pass before the doctor comes through the doors. My entire body locks up as she walks toward me. I stop my pacing as the doctor stops in front of me. I feel everyone get to their feet and join us.
"Mr. Mariano."
I don't waste time on pleasantries. "How is she?"
The doctor's expression softens slightly. "Your wife had a severe allergic reaction."
The hollowness I’ve been feeling doesn’t ease at her words. "Is she breathing?"
"Yes."
The single word knocks the air from my lungs.
The doctor continues. "The first EpiPen wasn't enough because of the level of exposure. We administered a second dose when she arrived."
She’s breathing, right now that’s all that fucking matters. "What does that mean?"
