The silence of the hospital room was louder, more agonizing, than the catastrophic crash of the crystal fixture. It was the antithesis of the chaotic, demanding world I knew, and it felt unbearable.
My hands, scrubbed clean of blood but still vibrating with the memory of the impact, gripped the cold metal of the bedside rail. I hadn't moved from this room since they wheeled her up from recovery.
I stared at her,at Ava, pale and still, tethered to machines that whispered her vital signs. Her left arm, encased in a stark white cast, rested on the sheets.
Her hair was tucked beneath a bandage wrapped around her temple. She looked fragile, utterly helpless, and completely lost to me.
The surgeons had confirmed the severe concussion and the necessary stitching for the lacerations. Her vital signs were strong, but her mind was elsewhere. The doctor had been clear: a few days, perhaps longer, before she stirred.
