All of the good souls stand unafraid.
The hospital was cold, stark. Grace was lost in its maze like a lone bluebird left behind for the winter, dwarfed by the frozen, twisting branches among which it nested.
Even in a hospital, Grace was getting looks. She was shivering violently, uncontrollably. Her skin had lost all its color, and she could trace the bright blue veins beneath her porcelain skin. Her blue eyes sat motionless in their lids, staring unblinkingly at the paths across her shaking arms.
Grace knew she looked the part of a patient. From the blood stains on her breeches to the cuts on her face, she looked as if she belonged in the first-floor emergency room. But as she kept insisting, she was fine. It was useless to wait for the doctors; precious time was slipping by.
She wanted to turn to her mother and ask where Christopher was. Or at least where they had taken his body. He had yet to be revived, and every second the life was draining out of him. She could feel that much.
The hours passed them slowly, dragging their feet. Every so often, a hesitant question would flutter from Cynthia’s lips. Grace attempted to answer each time, but speaking was a trial. Her replies came in one or two syllables.
Once, Cynthia quietly demanded, “What happened out there, Grace? Can you explain to me what he was doing, what you were doing?”
Grace couldn’t answer for Christopher. She could hardly answer for herself—because she wasn’t herself; she didn’t feel like herself.
She felt like a little girl, caught in a lurid, confused dream.
And it was this dream-child who sat that day in the ER, who wandered that evening through the hospital halls.
The hospital was cold, stark. Grace was lost in its maze like a lone bluebird left behind for the winter, dwarfed by the frozen, twisting branches among which it nested.
Even in a hospital, Grace was getting looks. She was shivering violently, uncontrollably. Her skin had lost all its color, and she could trace the bright blue veins beneath her porcelain skin. Her blue eyes sat motionless in their lids, staring unblinkingly at the paths across her shaking arms.
Grace knew she looked the part of a patient. From the blood stains on her breeches to the cuts on her face, she looked as if she belonged in the first-floor emergency room. But as she kept insisting, she was fine. It was useless to wait for the doctors; precious time was slipping by.
She wanted to turn to her mother and ask where Christopher was. Or at least where they had taken his body. He had yet to be revived, and every second the life was draining out of him. She could feel that much.
The hours passed them slowly, dragging their feet. Every so often, a hesitant question would flutter from Cynthia’s lips. Grace attempted to answer each time, but speaking was a trial. Her replies came in one or two syllables.
Once, Cynthia quietly demanded, “What happened out there, Grace? Can you explain to me what he was doing, what you were doing?”
Grace couldn’t answer for Christopher. She could hardly answer for herself—because she wasn’t herself; she didn’t feel like herself.
She felt like a little girl, caught in a lurid, confused dream.
And it was this dream-child who sat that day in the ER, who wandered that evening through the hospital halls.
Excerpt from The Circular Path
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I went to the hospital this afternoon (not for myself, but for my grandmother). It reminded of this scene from The Circular Path, a novel I drafted up last year. This scene, in particular, is part of a larger one titled "Dismissed". Grace is struggling through a world of abuse, both of substance and emotion, and the only person who has offered her hope has just been in a serious cross-country accident.
There's something beautiful about Grace to me; she always finds her way into my head to offer me strength.
I went to the hospital this afternoon (not for myself, but for my grandmother). It reminded of this scene from The Circular Path, a novel I drafted up last year. This scene, in particular, is part of a larger one titled "Dismissed". Grace is struggling through a world of abuse, both of substance and emotion, and the only person who has offered her hope has just been in a serious cross-country accident.
There's something beautiful about Grace to me; she always finds her way into my head to offer me strength.
Hope your grandmother's okay. And that was excellent writing
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