By Gen X
I think I'm going to be ill.
There's this feeling in the pit of my stomach and it's not because we're
flying through space or the fact that we're eons from home. It's something
closer, and he's lying in the next room.
Three feet, a bunch of steel, and one closed door is all that separates him
from me. The last I saw he was convulsing slightly. His eyes were tight
shut. There wasn't a damn thing for me to do. I know this sounds bad, but
I'm glad I didn't see him down there. Not right after we escaped. I
wouldn't have been able to handle or deal.
Everything moved too fast. The searing image of seeing Bart killed before
my eyes, trapped on Hell, reliving Tana's death and then the escape. There
was no time to think. No time to grieve. I had to act or else we might
still be there.
Unconscious I can handle.
Bruised? No problem.
He's much worse, and we can't even begin to figure it out. Cissie thinks
it's shock but she's not sure. My throat aches from arguing with her.
There's nothing she or Rob can do, yet they should be able to do
something. We shouldn't have to just sit and wait. It's not fair that
they don't have the answers.
I'm calm now. As much as I can be. I've settled down. No more outbursts
for me. There's just this cold numbness that overwhelms me. They said I
could go back in. And sit. And wait. Yet, I can't seem to move.
I have this horrible fear that if I go in that he'll stay like that, and
I'm talking forever. That'd I'd be witness to his hell and he's already
dead, and I'd be looking at the future, so dark and grim. Irrational. I'm
in denial that he might die yet I'm imagining the scenarios.
Life is cruel like that. He won't die. Life wouldn't be that cruel of a
bitch the second time around. Would it?
If we get home-- once we get home. Everything'll be fine.
It has to be.
He has to be.
I'm not quite sure what would happen to me then. There's these emotions
swirling about. Guilt and fear and regret and frustration. I'm never
quite sure which one will take hold. I blame myself. I blame him. I
blame the world. The war. Life itself and the unfairness of it all.
Then I realize I'm pitying myself. Because I don't want to deal, I don't
want this to happen. And I'm being selfish thinking of me when he'd be
gone. And I hate that. Then I realize that he's going to be fine. I try
to convince myself of that. Everything seems distant, the world seems to
be moving too fast and spinning to far away. It seems as if I can't stop
thinking or moving.
I'm still in a chair with a closed door just three feet away. I know
what's behind it. That's about the only certainty I know. My mind reels,
spinning with possibilities. And nothing is written in stone. There are
no reassurances. And life is unfair.
And Bart's waiting... alone... just three feet away.
I should move. I want to move.
Yet, I'm scared.
And I know exactly why.
fin