Backdated to early to mid May because I fail at doing anything in a timely manner these days. orz
Word Count: 801
“How do you feel?”
Paris had had less than fond feelings for medical establishments since the death of her father. Whatever sort of comfort she might feel sitting with her therapist paled in comparison to the feelings of hopelessness and despair a visit to a hospital or clinic was so quick to dredge up from within her. She hated the cleanliness, the feelings of confinement; she hated how quiet it was, how cold and lonely it felt. She hated the stiffness of the bedsheets and the bland, impersonal decorations on the walls.
Chris's question seemed empty and pointless. How else could she feel without her father there?
She should have been happy. She should be facing the day to come with a bubbling anticipation. Before now she'd felt only confidence, relief, but then it was easy to think only of herself without any of the reminders all around her.
“I don't know,” she admitted. She sat upright in bed, picked at the blanket, looked over at Chris and stubbornly squashed down the urge to get up and settle into his lap where she always felt safe. “I should be thinking about myself right now, but the only thing I can think about is my dad.”
Chris lowered himself into a chair at her bedside, reached for one of her hands and cradled it between his own. His expression was tired and drawn from stress, and the look in his eyes was uncommonly vague and distant. Paris thought he must be trying to stay strong. She knew what it felt like to be in his position, with nothing to do but wait and pace around and fret about all the things that could possibly go wrong.
“You miss him,” Chris said. It wasn't a question.
“Every day,” Paris admitted, but then she was sure they both knew that already. “I didn't think I would before. You know, when I was younger. We were always yelling at each other and sometimes he'd say really cruel things, but... he was my dad.”
The 'was' was difficult. Paris paused and swallowed through the emotion that tightened her throat.
“I knew he still cared, even if he didn't understand,” she said. “He still loved me, even if he didn't know how to love me the way I needed him to.”
Chris's fingers stroked lightly over the top of her hand. “Are you afraid?” he asked.
Paris thought about the answer carefully before she closed her eyes and whispered, “No.”
And she wasn't. She might think longingly of her father, might feel a heavy sense of regret for the way things had ended, might wish that she could see him, or hear his voice, or feel his hand on her head one last time, to have him there to look at her and see her for who she was, but she didn't feel a single shred of fear for what was to come.
“Are you?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.
“Terrified.”
Paris swallowed again, nodded her acknowledgement. She twisted her hand around in his and twined their fingers together, squeezed tight enough so that they could both believe she'd never let go.
“He'll be with you,” Chris said. “Your dad.”
There was a tiny catch in his voice that wouldn't have been discernible to anyone who didn't know him better. Paris could not longer resist the compulsion to go to him; she shifted on the bed, sat herself along the edge of the mattress, in nothing but a crumpled paper hospital gown and a plastic medical bracelet, and threw her arms around him to draw his head onto her shoulder. She clung to him as his arms rose up to wrap around her.
“Do you really believe that?” she asked. “With everything we know...”
“I do,” Chris said. His lips pressed desperate kisses to the side of her neck before he pulled himself away enough to look at her. One of his hands slid around to rest against her chest. “He's been with you all along.”
Paris couldn't have fought the tears that sprung into her eyes if she'd tried.
'Ne me quitte pas,' she'd said before her father had been wheeled away from her. She'd shouted it desperately, would have dropped to her knees and begged if she'd thought anyone would listen.
Ne me quitte pas...
'Don't leave me.'
She liked to believe that her father had listened, liked to imagine he was still with her somehow, if not in person than in spirit, nestled somewhere close to her heart.
And when she remembered the golden light that came from the depths of her soul in those moments when she was at her most vulnerable, Paris could almost believe that it was true.
