The Remnant

Something small I wrote for a contest once.

How many times has she been lulled to sleep by the steady, rhythmic monotones of a cardiac monitor? She wonders this as she sits once more in that small and barely cordial hospital room, rigid in a crude chair. They used to bring such hope, for each high-pitched din had meant that he was still alive. But now they are like cruel mocking, each one a painfully insensitive voice: He’ll not wake, he’ll not wake. Her eyes narrow at the steady lines that signify his heartbeat as she pushes down the urge to smash the machine to bits, if only to stop the incessant beeping.

 

Even unconscious, he looks nearly the same. Dark curls still fall over his forehead just so, and those three freckles on his right cheek haven’t disappeared. But pale lips are covered by a thick tube that runs into yet another machine, causing his unnatural breathing to hiss slightly with each intake. He is too still, like a porcelain doll kept on a stand in a glass cabinet. The same, but so different.

 

She’s waited every night for three months – has it been three months? – for some movement; for those long lashes to flutter, for his fingers to twitch, for something, for anything that meant he still had signs of life in him.

 

She’s angry – has been angry for months. Why should he have to fight the battle when she has the disease? Why should his lungs struggle each second to draw breath, when it’s her mind that is slowly being poisoned? Why should he suffer, when it’s her that deserves it?

 

God, does she ever deserve it…

 

She was wasted, but by now he expected it. This was almost a ritual – she didn’t even ask how he’d known where she was as she climbed into the passenger seat of the car. He always seemed to know, and if he didn’t, he always managed to find out. He’d shanghai the car, drive to wherever that night’s party was, and take her home. Sometimes it was a silent ride home; yet sometimes it was full of laughter, and even, on her part, tears. Tonight was laughter and tears combined. “Why do you keep saving me?” She’d slurred out, legs stretched over the dashboard and lips contorted in an uncharacteristic lopsided smirk. He just grinned, “Oh, probably because you’re my sister and I’ve made being your hero my sole purpose in life.” They laughed, told jokes, and completely ignored the issues at hand that would otherwise loom like a dark cloud. But later, when the laughter died into an excruciating headache and opening her eyes took too much energy, he placed a heavy hand on hers and held on tight. “I’ll always be right here with a getaway car, so you won’t ever have to be alone. I’ll be there for you always, Beth, no matter what. I promise.” He must have thought she was asleep, but in truth, she was more awake in that long minute than she had ever been.

 

How many times had he had to recue her from one stupid situation or another? Too many to count, like the times she’s sat in this exact chair in this exact room and thought the exact same thoughts. She never did thank him. Not once, but he knows she’s grateful. He has to, he always knows. But how hard would it have been, a simple, ‘thank you’? Her fists clench until unkempt and poorly painted nails dig crescent moons into the palms. She’d done everything to deserve disease. The parties, the drugs, the guys… It should be her in that hospital bed, not him. No, never him. He only ever fixed her mistakes while never making any of his own. He was perfect, a saint.

 

Is perfect, is a saint – God, she needs a drink.

Her back is sore from the hours in the crude chair, but she doesn’t get up to stretch. No, she doesn’t dare, for fear of missing those fluttering eyelashes, that sign of life that her parents have given up on. They’ve already locked away his room, refuse to let her see it. All his things, every last trace that proved he ever existed, in that room. Well, almost everything. She smirks a little; sardonic, but the closest to a smile she’s been in three months.

 

“I’m gonna play the drums. They’re loud, and they’ll give Daddy headaches. What’re you gonna play, Jesse?”

“I think I’m going to play the… the… the… flute. It won’t give Daddy headaches.”

“Flute? You can’t play flute, silly! Flutes are for girls, and you’re a yucky boy!”

“Are not!”

“Are, too!”

 “MOM, I can play flute, right? It’s not just for girls, right? And Beth said I was y…” It had died right there. He never could tattle. Didn’t have the guts or the heart -- not when he was ten, not when he was seventeen. “Never mind!”

 

He played that flute with fiery determination, too. Dad labeled him gifted. She labeled him as spiteful. He had talent, in any case, and that was for sure. He was good. Is good, he is good; since when did she start using the W word?

 

The flute is in her room now, hiding from Mom and Dad like a holocaust survivor. Dad says that it causes Mom too much pain right now, and that they have to lock his possessions away in order to let go and move on. They don’t care that she doesn’t want to let go, that she doesn’t want to lose him. She hasn’t lost him, not yet. But they’re in mourning already – can’t they see that he isn’t dead?! He’s still there, he’s still breathing!

 

No…it’s the machine that’s breathing, isn’t it?

 

She cringes with this harsh new realization, and doesn’t even feel her nails drawing blood. Why was he doing this? Why was he leaving her? He promised. He promised to always be in the car waiting, to be there for her. And she needs him, God Almighty, she’s always needed him. He knows that, doesn’t he? Her heart beats against her chest as if trying to break free. The monotones of the cardiac monitor droll a new song: You’re so selfish, you’re so selfish.

 

They were right.

 

She never thinks about anyone but herself, and especially not him. Would she have been there, waiting in the car for him, or home on the couch watching TV? Would she have rescued him? These are questions she’ll never have answers to, and they hurt almost more than anything. He lays there, motionless, helpless, a ghostly figure that almost blends in with the sheets; and she’s wondering why he’s doing this to her?

 

You’re so selfish, you’re so selfish.

 

Has she ever done anything for him? In her entire life, has she ever gone out of her way for him like he has for her? Her mind is blank, though she tries her hardest to remember. Nothing comes to mind.

 

It’s not too late, it’s not too late.

 

Three months, she’s sat in this room and held one sided conversations. Complaining about school, filling him in on the gossip, on how the ‘rents are faring, on how much she misses him being around. Three months, she’s sat in this room and prayed with a fury to a God in whom she doesn’t even believe. Three months, she’s alienated herself from everyone and everything, like a monk who has taken a vow of silence in hopes of hearing the voice of God. No parties, no drugs, no guys, no parents. Just her, and him, and a cardiac monitor. For what? What has it all been for? How could he just give up when she’s done so much to get him back? Three months…

 

You’re so selfish, you’re so selfish.

 

Three months since he’d last murmured a syllable. Three months that he’s lain here, without so much as a wave of brain activity. Three months he’s been forced to keep going when there’s nothing left. There’s nothing left. She really hasn’t ever done anything for him, has she?

 

It’s not too late, it’s not too late.

 

Her eyes burn with tears that dried up three months ago, but she grasps his hand like a last lifeline.

 

It doesn’t grasp back.

 

She doesn’t expect it to.

 

She takes a long, shuddering breath before mumbling almost incoherent words with a voice hoarse from disuse. “My turn, huh?” It’s then that she nods a slight incline of her head. “I’m ready.” His chest stops moving, the raspy breaths stop. She doesn’t hear the sobs from her parents on the other side of the hospital bed as they clutch each other in their grief, the meaningless condolences from the Doctor. Only the one long tone of the cardiac monitor, the one long tone of a stopped heartbeat. A stopped heartbeat that meant she was alone…

 

Thank you. Thank you.

 

And she doesn’t regret it.