There is a soft cough behind me and I turn, seeing Dana in the doorway, her steps moving in. She crosses her arms and shoots us both a look. “I don’t hear either one of you thinking about her. She doesn’t belong to either of you. You’re both acting like you hold any decision-making rights in her life, like you can cockfight your way to a victory. Who would she pick, if she was awake right now?”

I look away from Dana and Paul and down at her. Look at her closed eyes and the rise and fall of her chest. And I am absolutely terrified of the answer.

DANA

I don’t know what to make of my brothers. Of the men they have become. They snarl and snap over her silent body like she is the last scrap of meat and they are starving. They are both desperate in their love, both terrified of losing her. Both reckless in their announcement of happily ever after. But they forget the most important thing. That they don’t have much of a choice in this. That her heart, her damaged brain, will decide if she ever wakes up. If they ever get a chance to look in her eyes and tell her how they feel. And if she does wake up, it will be her choice to make.

I myself am torn. Over this woman, over my feelings for her. I have spent the last two months hating her. Secretly watching, trying to figure out her motives, her plan. And now... it appears she has no plan at all. Stewart was the executor of this insane figure eight. She is just the center of it. The place where the two halves come together and meet.

This entire situation is a disaster.

It is at this point in time that the beeping, the slow beeping that has been the heartbeat of this horror show slows, the change in tempo catching all of our attention. Lights that I never noticed begin to flash, alarms begin to sound, and all I can pay attention to is that the beeping has stopped.

Stopped.

Flatline.

Both men rush to her body as the door slams open and white coats swarm.

MADISON

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I cannot speak for others who have died. Their experiences might have been different. They might have been met at glittery gates by Morgan Freeman and cute little cherubs with cheeks of sparkles. I only know that it felt like being pulled. Not pulled forward in a vacuum of suck, but pulled apart, each arm and limb yanked slowly, an excruciating pain as cracks formed in bone, tissue and muscles popping and ripping, my chest struggling to pump as ventricles broke loose and cavities collapsed. My heart struggled to pick a side as my body broke in half, tearing down the middle in the unclean division of all the things that made my body whole. Its pieces were stubborn, sewn into ribcages and sternums, and it finally yanked into two separate pieces, my soul screaming in protest as I was released to the heavens.

PAUL

There is shouting, unintelligible words, and we are pushed aside, the small room suddenly full, my back hitting the sharp edge of a machine. I struggle to see her face, my panicked eyes meeting Stewart’s, despair in his blue eyes. Our gaze holds for a moment, and in that moment, everything is forgiven. We need only one thing... and I return my gaze to her, to her body, which is so still, the monitor still showing a flat line, buzzing and alarms sounding throughout the room. I choke back a sob and watch the fury of activity, my hands clenching into fists. Then I drop to my knees and pray, silent fast words spilling from my mouth. I promise things I will never be able to deliver, promise to let her go, to let her be with him. I promise to lead a perfect life, to devout myself to good, anything, everything, just to have her live. I need her life. I cannot, will not, make it without her. I don’t have to have her as mine, but I need her to live. This world cannot lose her. I cannot exist if she is not alive.

STEWART

Six voicemails. The fact that it crosses my mind in this moment is sickening. It is something I will never admit to anyone, I am pushing it out of my mind at the moment it creeps in, desperate to bury it with emotions, love, grief, anything. I don’t deserve her. I don’t deserve anything but my empty office, stacked with deadlines and trades, dotted lines and stock prices. I don’t deserve the sunny smile flirting with me while snow dots her face, her giggle when I awaken her at four AM, her hand tugging me to my feet while she drops to her knees. I try to catch sight of her, try to see past the flash of metal, white cloth, and gloves. I try to see her face. I try to send her a silent apology for every piece of the man that I am not. I step backward, against the wall, and pray.

DANA

There are too many people in the room, all with a purpose or a deep-ingrained love that will not allow their feet to move. I am the only one with no place in that room. I am the outsider, watching the train wreck with a morbid fascination. I can’t help them. This is something that they have to figure out amongst themselves. I don’t envy Madison when she wakes up. An event that should be a celebration, the survival of death, will be a tense, who-will-you-choose tug of war. She will wake to expectant eyes, competing affections and pregnant pauses. I need to protect her. I need to keep their competition at bay and allow her to heal. I am suddenly struck with the irony of those thoughts. For months I have been worried about protecting them from her. And now, now that I am actually present and a part of this discussion, I have crawled over the fence and am now guarding the opposite side.

As the flatline stretches out, her body jerking with electricity from the paddles, no change, no life coming back into her body, I realize that I may not have a fence to protect. And I join my brothers in fervent prayer.

MADISON

I am brought back to life at 4:08 PM. It is with a jarring impact, my back slamming against the bed with a hard thunk. My eyes flip open to bright white light, shining intensely down on me, heads breaking the line of white, hands everywhere, touching, lifting, squeezing my skin. I briefly hear Paul’s voice, and then my eyes close and I sink back into darkness.

I am so. so. tired.

I feel a squeeze, then a release. A squeeze, and then a release. A hum of sounds, a familiar cadence that my brain recognizes as speech, the words unintelligible. I struggle, the grip on my hand tightening as I try to move. I open my eyes, crust sticking my lashes together, a haze over my vision and I blink to clear them.

An unfamiliar face peers into mine, the man’s features studied, his eyes sharp, looking carefully into mine. I frown, trying to place him, trying to place the white tile ceiling behind his head. Where am I? There is a roar in my head, spots appearing in my vision, and I wince, closing my eyes briefly, the peace instantly returning, and I relax against the pillow, grateful for the reprieve.

The hand squeezes again, and the voices return, incessant and irritating. I try to pull my hand away, try to roll to my side and block out the voices. I want to sleep, and this party of irritating is putting a cramp in that style.




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