[ It was supposed to be a family vacation -- Chuck managed to get a week or two off, and they were on the road in the beginning of winter. Grand Canyon; that would be a great place to visit, and Raleigh's pretty much nudged Chuck onto that well-deserved break.
It had been an evening like any other, when Raleigh leans over to help Percy settle in for his nap before they reach the hotel; the eighteen-wheeler had come out of nowhere onto Raleigh's side of the vehicle, and it was a mess of breaking glass and screaming metal and an impossible, impossible choice. Raleigh was caught in the wreckage and their son was crying, hurt and bleeding, and the last thing Raleigh remembered was her husband's face and her terror for their son -- "Chuck, Percy's bleeding -- our son -- " and she had pushed him away; he had to extricate their two-year old first, he had to save them at all costs.
And then everything went dark.
She hears snippets of conversation after, words spoken in the quiet when she rests and struggles to open her eyes but she can't, she really can't; and she loses all track of time, the sound of steady beeps a lullaby when the voices are gone, slow soothing words a distant memory. She remembered physiotherapists, quiet words, and she remembers Chuck.
Raleigh wakes at 1:33am on a Wednesday morning two months and three weeks later, disoriented and bleary and so very heavy. She can't move, not really, and it's the weakness that scares her, that it takes so much effort to open her eyes. She tries, monumental effort spent on taking in her surroundings, sterile but warm (a rehab ward, perhaps?) and she manages to press the call bell laid beside her before she very nearly blacks out at the effort.
Tired, she's so tired. Where's Chuck? It feels like she heard him not so long ago, the warmth of his hands; and a part of her aches for him -- how long had she been gone? Did he still remember her?
The nurses come in quickly, before they notify the doctor-on-call, and they spend a little while assessing her, and the flashlight in her eyes makes her wince. The doctor, a pretty young fellow with an earnest look about him apologises and mentions Chuck's name, which snags her drifting attention. It takes effort to focus, and more effort to actually mouth the words. ] Jello.
[ If her husband's coming, he damn well better come armed with that shit. ]
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[ It was supposed to be a family vacation -- Chuck managed to get a week or two off, and they were on the road in the beginning of winter. Grand Canyon; that would be a great place to visit, and Raleigh's pretty much nudged Chuck onto that well-deserved break.
It had been an evening like any other, when Raleigh leans over to help Percy settle in for his nap before they reach the hotel; the eighteen-wheeler had come out of nowhere onto Raleigh's side of the vehicle, and it was a mess of breaking glass and screaming metal and an impossible, impossible choice. Raleigh was caught in the wreckage and their son was crying, hurt and bleeding, and the last thing Raleigh remembered was her husband's face and her terror for their son -- "Chuck, Percy's bleeding -- our son -- " and she had pushed him away; he had to extricate their two-year old first, he had to save them at all costs.
And then everything went dark.
She hears snippets of conversation after, words spoken in the quiet when she rests and struggles to open her eyes but she can't, she really can't; and she loses all track of time, the sound of steady beeps a lullaby when the voices are gone, slow soothing words a distant memory. She remembered physiotherapists, quiet words, and she remembers Chuck.
Raleigh wakes at 1:33am on a Wednesday morning two months and three weeks later, disoriented and bleary and so very heavy. She can't move, not really, and it's the weakness that scares her, that it takes so much effort to open her eyes. She tries, monumental effort spent on taking in her surroundings, sterile but warm (a rehab ward, perhaps?) and she manages to press the call bell laid beside her before she very nearly blacks out at the effort.
Tired, she's so tired. Where's Chuck? It feels like she heard him not so long ago, the warmth of his hands; and a part of her aches for him -- how long had she been gone? Did he still remember her?
The nurses come in quickly, before they notify the doctor-on-call, and they spend a little while assessing her, and the flashlight in her eyes makes her wince. The doctor, a pretty young fellow with an earnest look about him apologises and mentions Chuck's name, which snags her drifting attention. It takes effort to focus, and more effort to actually mouth the words. ] Jello.
[ If her husband's coming, he damn well better come armed with that shit. ]