Page 4

THREE

PRAYING

FAR AWAY: NICKLEBACK

KILLIAN

T he drive to the fucking hospital feels like an eternity, each red light a cruel reminder of the precious seconds ticking by. The rhythmic wail of the sirens is in sync with the frantic beating of my own fucking heart. Calista’s sobs are a constant, heartbreaking soundtrack to the journey, punctuated by Five’s quiet reassurances and whispered attempts to comfort her that feel hollow even to my own ears. Dom sits rigidly beside me, his gaze fixed on the road, his silence heavy with unspoken guilt.

Nobody knows what to fucking say or do, so nothing but the quiet, heartbreaking sounds of sniffles and sobs surrounds us, the tragic event pulling us deeper into the darkness we were almost out of.

We were so fucking close we could almost taste our freedom.

The emergency room is a blur of activity, a chaotic ballet of doctors and nurses rushing around us. They whisk Ash away, their movements efficient and professional, yet the fear remains, a cold knot tightening in my stomach with each passing moment. We're ushered into a waiting room, the sterile scent of antiseptics doing little to mask the raw, visceral fear that permeates the air. I pace back and forth, itching to get high—as fucked up as it sounds—just to numb the pain I feel so deeply inside. Cali is still a crying mess, curled up in a ball on Five’s lap while Dom chews frantically on his already short nails, staring blankly out the hospital window, watching the rain fall down in some kind of trance.

Hours stretch into an agonizing eternity. The silence is broken only by the occasional muffled cries from Calista, the rhythmic beeping of heart monitors echoing from somewhere down the hall, and the hushed whispers of the medical staff. Five squeezes my hand, his touch a silent promise of support, a lifeline in the sea of uncertainty. Dom remains silent, his guilt palpable, a heavy weight hanging between us.

Finally, a doctor emerges, his face etched with a mixture of weariness and concern. He speaks in measured tones, explaining the severity of Ash’s condition, the overdose, the seizures, the precariousness of his situation. He uses clinical terms that go in one ear and out the other, but the underlying message is clear: Ash is fighting for his life. He's critical, but stable. For now .

The news hits us like a physical blow—one way worse than anything that's happened to us in the past. The fragile hope we have been clinging to begins to quickly unravel, replaced by an unsettling wave of despair.

We sit here, numb, the weight of the situation pressing down on us, crushing us under its immense gravity. The carefree laughter, the easy conversation, the shared jokes—all seem like distant memories, relics of a life that feels both so fucking close and so fucking far away.

As we sit together in silence, the fluorescent lights above cast a harsh glare on our faces. Each minute drags on, punctuated by the incessant ticking of the wall clock, reminding us that time doesn’t care about our pain, that it moves forward relentlessly, indifferent to our suffering. My mind drifts, flitting between memories of brighter days and the stark reality of our present.

I glance over at Calista, her eyes vacant, lost in a haze of disbelief. Five’s arm is gently draped around her shoulders, offering the kind of comfort that feels almost futile in this moment of crisis. I wish I could reach inside her mind, pull out the pieces of her shattered heart, and put them back together, but I know that this is something she must face herself. In the corner of the room, Dom stands, a storm of emotions swirling within him, the burden of having not seen the signs weighing heavily on his conscience.

After another eternity, the doctor returns, his face a mask of professionalism. He begins detailed explanations again—medical jargon spilling from his lips like a fucking foreign language. The words "rehabilitation," "support," "monitoring" weave into our atmosphere like a dark fog. I nod as he speaks, but my mind is elsewhere, lost in thoughts that twist like a knife in my gut.

“Can we see him?” I manage to ask, my voice cracking under the weight of anxiety.

“Not yet,” the doctor replies, his gaze sympathetic yet firm. “We need to stabilize him further. It’s critical we don’t overwhelm his system.”

A knot forms in my stomach. I want to fucking scream in frustration, to demand to know why this shit happened, to point fucking fingers, but what good would that do? Instead, I swallow hard, the lump in my fucking throat expanding as silence descends.

Hours morph into uneventful moments, except for whispered conversations among the three of us. Calista clings to Five, who gently brushes his fingers through her hair, trying to soothe her frayed nerves. I catch fragments of their conversation—hints of happier days, silly stories meant to lighten the mood, but the dark cloud hanging above us devours all the fucking light.

Then, the surge of emotion swells within me, powerful and wildfire-like. I stand up abruptly, the chair screeching against the tile floor, drawing their concerned gazes.

“I can’t just fucking sit here!” I blurt out, a mix of frustration and fear surging through me. “We need to fucking do something!”

Five’s hand catches my wrist, his grip firm yet gentle. “Let’s just take a breath,” he implores, but I can feel the tremor in his voice, the silent plea that we all share: we are racing against the fucking unknown.

I look into Calista’s tear-stained eyes and feel another knot of guilt and helplessness. “Let’s go for a walk. Fresh air might help,” I suggest, desperate for any distraction, for a sliver of hope.

Dom follows my lead as we step outside, the cool rain lightly splattering against our faces, a refreshing contrast to the sterile confines of the hospital. In the open air, the sounds of the city surround us—distant sirens, the chatter of pedestrians, the soft murmur of falling rain. I lean against a random bench, dragging in a deep breath filled with smoke from my cigarette that tastes of uncertainty and fear, while Dom paces nearby, lighting up himself.

“What if we lose him?” Dom finally says, the words spilling out like a sigh of desperation. “What if this is it?”

“It won’t be,” I insist, though I can’t quell the doubt gnawing at the edges of my mind. “We can’t think like that.”

Calista steps closer, wrapping her arms around herself as if trying to piece together her own faith. “He’s strong,” she whispers. “He’ll pull through, right?”

Once again, we cling to hope like a lifeline, an ember in the suffocating dark. The rain continues to fall, but we hold tight to each other, ready to face whatever storm lies ahead.

The storm, however, showed no signs of abating. Hours bled into one another, marked only by the shifting positions of our weary bodies and the occasional, stifled sob from the others. The doctor’s visits became less frequent, his pronouncements more guarded. The word "critical" hung in the air, a lead weight suffocating any remaining optimism.

Five, the rock it seemed, maintained a fragile composure; his quiet strength was our hope in the suffocating darkness. He moved between us, offering a hand, a word of encouragement, a silent presence that somehow managed to slightly fill the gaping void of fear. Dom, however, remained trapped in his own silent torment, his guilt a palpable entity that hung heavy in the air between us. His pacing grew more frantic, his whispers to himself barely audible, a constant, low hum of self-recrimination.

The rain continued, a relentless rhythm mirroring the pounding in my own chest. I found myself staring out at the city lights, blurred and indistinct through the downpour, wondering if this was it—the end of our story, a tragic full stop to a life that had felt so vibrant, so full of promise just hours before.

Then, a change. A subtle shift in the atmosphere, almost imperceptible at first. The doctor’s next visit was shorter, his tone less grave. He spoke of small improvements, of stabilized vitals, of a flicker of responsiveness. The words were cautious, hedged with warnings, but the underlying message was a fragile, tentative hope.

A collective breath escaped us. A shared, silent acknowledgment of the possibility, however slim, that we might not lose him. The weight on our shoulders, though still immense, felt slightly lighter; the crushing pressure eased by a sliver of optimism.

Calista’s sobs subsided, replaced by a quiet, trembling hope. She reached out and took Five’s hand, her touch tentative, as if afraid to break the fragile spell. Dom stopped pacing, his shoulders slumping slightly, the tension visibly easing from his rigid posture.

We sat there, in the sterile waiting room, the rain still falling outside, the city lights still blurred, but something had shifted. The darkness hadn't lifted entirely, but a small crack of light had appeared—a tiny flicker in the storm. We fucking clung to it, fiercely, desperately, knowing that the fight was far from over, but also knowing, with a renewed sense of purpose, that we would face whatever came next, together. The waiting continued, but now, it was a waiting tinged with a fragile, hesitant hope. A hope that, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, felt almost… real .

The next few hours crawled by, each tick of the clock a hammer blow against the fragile hope we’d tentatively embraced. The small crack of light threatened to be swallowed whole by the approaching darkness again.

Calista slept fitfully on my lap, her breaths shallow, her face etched with exhaustion and worry. Five remained vigilant, his hand never leaving hers—even sitting on my lap—a silent guardian against the storm. Dom, however, seemed to unravel further, his guilt a suffocating blanket he couldn't seem to shed. He moved like a ghost, his whispers now barely audible murmurs, lost in the oppressive silence of the waiting room.

I found myself unable to sit still. The need to do something— anything —gnawed at me. I bounced my leg, restless and agitated, the sterile scent of antiseptic suddenly nauseating. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitors, once a constant reminder of Ash's precarious state, now felt like a fucking mocking metronome, marking the slow, agonizing passage of time, and so I held onto Calista even tighter, so fucking afraid to let her go. I needed her. We all fucking needed her. But there was only one problem: She was long fucking gone, her mind a hectic mess of chaos and turmoil as she fought the voices that had randomly returned. If she was gone, who would we have to hold onto? We had each other, but in the end, was that going to be enough?

Then, the doctor appeared again. This time, he didn't speak in clinical jargon. He spoke in simple, direct terms, his voice devoid of the usual professional detachment. He spoke of Ash's progress, of his improved breathing, of the slight increase in his blood pressure. He spoke of the possibility of seeing him soon. And he also spoke of the medically induced coma they had to put him in so he could begin to heal on the inside.

The words hovered above us, fragile as butterfly wings. We didn't dare breathe, afraid to break the spell, afraid to shatter the delicate hope that had begun to bloom. The doctor's words were cautious, laced with warnings about the long road ahead and the potential for setbacks, but regardless, Ash was going to get better.

A wave of relief, so profound it almost hurt, washed over us. Tears streamed down Calista's face—tears of relief and despair. Five kissed her cheeks, lighting up her smile, his eyes shining with unshed tears. Even Dom seemed to relax, the tension visibly draining from his shoulders, but it was only for a second or two, and then he was more manic than he'd been before. The storm hadn't passed; the wind had lessened, but the rain picked up to a brutal drizzle.

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, we were allowed to see him. The sight of Ash, pale and frail, hooked up to machines, was fucking heartbreaking. But there was something else too—a flicker in his fingers, a slight twitch of his lips in response to Cali's voice. It was a fragile thing—a whisper of life in the face of death—but it was enough. It was fucking everything.

We knew the road to recovery would be long and arduous, filled with challenges and setbacks. But as we stood there, watching over Ash, hand in hand, we knew we could handle it. The storm might rage on, but we were working on finding our footing, our strength, our fucking hope. We had already found each other, and in that, we found the strength to brave any fucking storm.

For the first time in a long time, we felt a glimmer of something real, something powerful, something that whispered of a future where laughter would once again fill our lives, a future where Ash would be with us, not just fighting for his life, but living it.

We hoped. We fucking prayed to a higher power that never protected us or saved us, one who let us endure all the trauma we did as children. But fuck we prayed, because we didn't know what else to do. We needed something to believe in to get us through this difficult time. Now it was only a matter of time to see if it actually worked.