Artemis didn’t know how it came about, or what he was doing. All he remembered was pain, but the sleep made it go away, and that was nice, so he let it. Was he remembering or thinking? It didn’t matter anymore. All he thought- remembered- was that it didn’t hurt anymore. Sleep did that, and it was nice.
Angel was crying. Artemis put his arm around his wife, comforting her. Things would be okay, wouldn’t they? If things weren’t going to be okay, then he would know. They would have known, and it would be okay. Right? Angeline whimpered again.
“I’m sorry, Angel,” said Artemis unexpectedly, kissing his wife’s neck. “I just can’t think straight right now.”
It was a pitiful comparison. Artemis Senior picked up Angel’s hand, and it was shaking. He looked at her, and her eyes were troubled, more so than he had ever seen before. It was then that reality hit him, like a brick wall, and it stung.
Reality. In this case, reality was white lab coats, and the buzzing of machines, and the smell of antibacterials. Reality was a hospital, an endless winding blue and white maze, and when he felt it it didn’t feel like anything else could ever be reality again. Perhaps this was how his wife felt, perhaps it was stronger. The only time he saw her real face now was when the nurses came, and then when they left, she sunk deeper into her own pit of misery, and she aged it seemed a year an hour.
Reality? Maybe. All he knew for sure is that his son was in the hospital, in a sudden and unexplained coma, with uncertainty surrounding his survival for another month.
“This sucks,” said Beckett, sighing. Artemis looked at his other son, surprised at the five year old’s language. It wasn’t bad, but it was tacky, and Artemis wasn’t sure where he had picked it up.
Myles nodded in agreement, hardly looking up from his book, if he looked up at all. Reading, Artemis understood, was his only escape from the events. Myles had grown especially close to his brother in the past year, and the events were difficult for even the smartest five-year-old to grasp.
In spite of Beckett’s attempt at starting a conversation, it remained silent, for how long nobody knew, as time slipped away anxiously. But the Fowls weren’t anxious anymore, just tired, and sick of it all.
Hey, everybody! I’m back, and- Actually, I’m going to quit introducing myself. If you want to know who I am, look at my other stories. I’m sorry if this is confusing. It’ll explain itself, eventually. I’m trying to make it sort of like that book ‘Something Wicked This Way Comes’, by who I’m not sure, which I’ve only read two chapters of, but already love.
While I was writing this, “A Long December” by Counting Crows came on, and I almost cried. This was based off of my Christmas 2010, which I wasn’t meaning to tell you, and “A Long December” describes it well.
…Anyways, I need people for this. Four. See where I’m going with this now? I need:
Appearence: (I may alter it slightly)
Weaknesses and Strengths: (Same number, please!)
What sort of thing would you store a soul in?