The smell of the room stung Charles's nostrils, stirring a faint feeling of nausea and profound remorse.
Thump! Thump!
He placed a hand on his heart and measured its frantic beat. Oh dear, it's much too fast. This state was unfamiliar. Charles's heart never beat this quickly. His face never turned this shade of red. His eyes never got this moist. Most of all, his breathing was usually systematic and calm.
What was this foreign feeling? It was so bad he wouldn't have wished it on his worst enemy—if he even had one.
"What. . . is happening? Who did this? Isabelle. . ."
The gray walls of the room started closing in at a rapid pace. Charles jerked his head to face them and threw his arms out. "Stop! Please!"
The walls kept closing in. Now inches away, only Isabelle and her bed remained untouched. Charles pushed his wrists against the barriers. "Please, stop." He didn't want to yell anymore. He couldn't yell anymore.
"Mr. Vaughan!" A voice snapped Charles out of the hallucination. The walls that had wrapped around him instantly retreated.
A smaller-than-average hand settled on Charles's shoulder. "Breathe, Mr. Vaughan. You were screaming. Are you okay?" The doctor, who spoke through a sky-blue mask, brushed his short black hair to the side. "I know losing someone, especially your wife, can hurt. But we can't scream like that. It's improper."
He sat Charles down on a chair beside the bed. The doctor took Isabelle's cold hand and placed it in her husband's. "Here," he said. "Take a break to calm down, then we can talk."
Charles squeezed Isabelle's hand, then brought it to his cheek. Tears stained her white bed sheets.
He cried.
It was an ugly cry.
After a few minutes, the doctor calmly interrupted him. He checked his watch worriedly before looking back at Charles. "Come in."
A female and male nurse came through the door, standing behind the doctor; the difference in their height was clear as day. The male nurse, who reached almost two meters tall, had short fuzzy hair and a small mustache. His colleague was a short young lady of average looks, her chestnut-colored hair tied into two knots. Charles wiped the tears off his face, blew his nose, and hesitated. The nurses made eye contact with him.
They shuddered.
"It was. . . unexpected, to say the least," the doctor began. "We walked in here today, found you unconscious, and her deceased. We tried to resuscitate her. . . to no use."
After sighing, he continued, "I'm going to give you some more space to deal with all this." His gaze shifted toward Charles's chin. "Your son, however, was born healthy and is in the nursery. The nurse can bring him over once you are done with your mourning."
He tapped his chest in a strange pattern: two pats on his heart, then subsequently two on his upper chest, each one higher than the last.
A totem.
"You should thank Liege Maisedes he was born without troubles. . . We all should."
Charles gave a half nod and let his eyes find Isabelle. "Thanks."
Not to Liege Maisedes, but to Isabelle. Charles was not religious. He believed in the power of humanity instead of mythical entities. This way of thinking alienated him from the cathedrals and the citizens who were firm believers in Lord Maisedes, a Liege.
In Houtis, more than ninety percent of the commonfolk population knew of Maisedes, and most who knew of him worshipped him.
As the doctor was about to leave, he signaled the male and female nurses with a quick wave. In a quiet tone that the mourning Charles wouldn't hear, he ordered, "You. Get Emory and give him to the husband."
". . ."
Dejection instantly flooded the doctor's face. "Oh no. Oh no. No, no, no." The two nurses became anxious.
"Doctor, what's the matter?"
The doctor seized the female's shoulders. "You! Notify the Minister's Office! Let them save me!" He twitched and yelled at the male, "I said go get the child!"
The male and female nurses nodded and quickly left to complete the issued tasks.
The doctor ran out of the room, anxious and huffing and puffing like a madman. "Oh, Liege. How have I displeased you? I would never distrust or abandon you and your reign!"
He looked at his hand; parts of his fingers flickered in and out of visibility. "What have I done? I tried, Liege! I tried! I believe in the Totem! I believe in you, Liege!"
His body fragmented.
Crackle!
He disappeared. The clipboard in his hand and the glasses on his head dropped to the floor.
. . . .
Inside the dull hospital room, Charles heard something fall.
He didn't lift his head, not bothering to search outside. The unsightly appearance of his wife haunted him. How could he focus on anything else?
Just to make sure, he placed his index finger parallel to her nostrils. No air. . .
"Dagnabit!" Anger unrestrained. ". . . I'm sorry." Charles felt bad for yelling in Isabelle's presence, even though she was dead. In his heart, her soul continued to live on.
The room was quiet. Usually, Isabelle and Charles had lively chats—whether preparing for a baby, their wedding, or a simple date night, they always sat face-to-face and talked. Losing the ability to freely chat with her felt as though Charles had lost a part of himself.
Waking up to reality, Isabelle's lifeless, cold hand remained in his grasp. Then, he started crying again. It wasn't like the previous cry. Softer, more delicate. A whimper.
Shortly after, he was rudely awakened by a knock on the door. His startled head hit the back of the chair. Ouch. . .
The male nurse's apathetic tone broke the silence. "Mr. Vaughan, here is your son." In his burly hands, the nurse held a small child wrapped in a blue blanket. The infant was silent, presumably sucking on a pacifier.
Charles paused. "Baby?"
The nurse rolled his eyes. "Your child, E–," he stopped himself from finishing the sentence, "–The child you had with Isabelle Vaughan."
A figurative light bulb flashed over Charles's head. I have a son! He had completely forgotten about Emory.
The nurse walked toward Charles, each step trembling the ground ever so slightly. He forcefully (sort of) handed Emory to Charles, whose face was mildly sleepy. "T–Thank you." Charles took Emory from the nurse.
"Have everything prepared before exiting the hospital. We shall take care of the woman's body. Select a date for the funeral on the way out." The nurse sounded like he was reciting a script, his tone monotone and choppy.
"O–okay. . ."
Charles looked down at Emory in his arms. The baby did the same, gazing at his father with piercing red eyes. Emory was conventionally cute; adorable cheek fat and a small head of black hair.
"Emory. . ."
When he left the hospital room with his newborn, Charles walked up to a smaller desk on the second floor. "H–Hello." His eyes were still red; it had been hard to say goodbye to Isabelle. It took the nurse urging him to leave for Charles to function properly.
Even now, his mind wasn't in the right place.
He saw faint images of Isabelle walking beside him.
In some of them, she was pregnant, waiting in line for her favorite food. In others, she wore her regular clothes, walking with him hand-in-hand. And in the most painful ones, she wore a mesmerizing wedding dress, standing down a long aisle with a veil covering her head.
It took the disturbed glare of passersby to snap Charles out of his delusions
Emory simply watched his frantic father, silently.
After his conversation with the secretary on the second floor finished, Charles walked away and headed to the stairway. From behind, he heard the sound of something falling. He sighed but didn't look back. He simply could not.
The reason being: Isabelle's funeral was in just two weeks.