Season One / Chapter 2 / Fragments of Truth


Page 1


===== “Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust,” The poignant words hung in the crisp January air of this Carolina Saturday afternoon. Pastor Bill somberly and gently sprinkled the dry earth upon Jarrod’s casket.

Jenn’s sister, Bree, was a picture of heartbreak, tears streaming unrestrainedly as she clutched Ivy’s tiny hand. The little boy, just two years old, seemed to bear an uncanny understanding of the profound sorrow that enveloped the gathering. Jarrod, Bree’s husband, had met his tragic death during the confrontation at the church. 

The gunman, driven by despair and rage, had sought out Pastor Bill inside the sanctuary. “Are you ready to go to heaven?” he bellowed, his back pressed against the church wall, pointing his gun menacingly.

Pastor Bill, fear evident in his eyes, had responded with a firm “No.” The gunman, his voice laced with bitterness, accused, “You convinced my wife your God is a healer. ‘Believe and give,’ you told her repeatedly. She gave everything we had; she died last night, and so did I.” In a panic, the congregation scrambled to distance themselves from the unfolding horror. Amid the chaos, Jarrod had heroically attempted to disarm the gunman but was shot instantly. Fortunately, after the first shot, an ex-Marine present at the scene had swiftly subdued the assailant, preventing further tragedy.


Page 2


==== Pastor Bill, with a cautious demeanor, approached Bree. “Are you ready to place your flowers upon Jarrod’s coffin?” he asked gently. Bree, her face etched with a mix of grief and disdain, didn’t respond verbally. With monumental effort, she rose from her chair, supported by her mother, Ms. Helen, and sister, Jenn.

Peter stepped in, offering a supportive arm. Ms. Helen tenderly transferred Ivy to her lap, where the child rested his head upon her breast. He was silent and wide-eyed, in need of comfort as much as any adult there.

As Bree moved towards Jarrod’s casket, each step she took seemed to draw from her the last reserves of her strength. At the casket, she gently disengaged from Peter’s supportive arm, her eyes fixed on the resting place of her husband.

Observing Bree, I found myself wrestling with questions of faith and power. An omnipotent God, yet seemingly powerless in preventing such a senseless act of violence. It struck me as ironic – the image of Superman, a fictional hero, stopping bullets while real-world tragedies unfolded unabated. In that moment of disillusionment, my respect for the divine waned, shrinking his name for me to a lowercase’ g’ forever.


Page 3


==== Lost in my thoughts, the gentle aroma of Jenn’s Versace perfume broke my trance as she settled into the chair beside me. Her presence was like a quiet statement of resilience. She managed a smile, yet it couldn’t mask the physical toll of recent events. Wrapped around her head was a bandage, tight and clinical, starkly contrasting with her otherwise elegant attire. It served as a jarring reminder of the traumatic ordeal she had endured – a grim memento from her desperate dash for safety amidst the chaos at the church.

The bulky head dressing, while almost absurd in its size, was ironically fitting for the chilly January air. It seemed to add an unexpected layer of protection against the biting cold, a silver lining in a cloud of misfortune. The right side of her head bore the most evident mark of her ordeal; her hair had been shaved away, a necessary measure to treat the gash in her scalp. Metal staples, clinically precise, held the wound together—a stark, metallic contrast to the soft vulnerability of her skin.

Jenn had been unconscious when the doctors performed the procedure, spared from the immediate shock of her altered appearance. Yet, the reality of her now half-shaven head lingered like a shadow, a truth she was yet to fully face in the mirror. Her current bandaged state offered a temporary shield from this confrontation.

Breaking the silence with a voice tinged with a mix of defiance and weariness, Jenn declared, “I’m not riding back in the family car.” Her words carried a weight of determination, a fierce independence shining through her vulnerability. “I’m leaving with you and Peter. Don’t leave me,” she added, a plea underscored by a hint of fear, a request for solidarity in the face of the day’s harrowing experiences.

Her statement was barely complete when Jarrod’s parents, cloaked in their veil of grief, approached us. Their presence offered a momentary diversion, pulling Jenn into a conversation that seemed both necessary and taxing. It was a brief interlude from the overwhelming surge of emotions that the day had brought. 


Page 4


==== Jarrod’s mother, her voice quivering with the weight of loss, uttered a phrase that seemed to be her only solace, “God never makes mistakes. He needed Jarrod in heaven.” Her words, spoken through a cascade of tears, were filled with deep, unwavering faith. It was as if, by saying this, she could somehow bridge the chasm of grief that Jarrod’s passing had left. Her eyes, red and swollen from crying, looked beyond us, perhaps seeing not the bleak reality of a funeral but a higher, divine plan that was beyond my grasp.

However, her words, intended to be comforting, felt empty to me. They struck me as a fragile attempt to bring order to something inherently chaotic and senseless. I couldn’t help but grapple with the theological implications of her statement. The notion of an omniscient god knowingly but allowing. It seemed to clash violently with the concept of a loving, benevolent creator. If I were a deity, I would have done things differently?

Peter, having quietly taken his seat beside me, broke into my thoughts with a soft, almost contemplative murmur, “God’s a man.”

“Whatever,” I responded, somewhat dismissively. From my viewpoint, Jarrod’s untimely demise wasn’t a matter of divine will or spiritual significance. It was a stark, brutal reminder of life’s unpredictability and unfairness. Jarrod’s action, while undeniably heroic, had culminated in a tragic loss, a life cut short in a moment of selfless bravery.

Peter seemed to understand my sentiments, and perhaps sharing in my sense of disillusionment, he leaned closer, urgency in his voice. “Let’s go!” he suggested, signaling a need to distance ourselves from the raw pain and unanswered questions that the funeral had stirred in us.


Page 5


==== As I turned towards Peter, a surge of gratitude welled inside me. It was his quick-wittedness and calm demeanor that had been our anchor during the tumultuous ordeal. I reached out, giving him a tender peck on the cheek, a small gesture to acknowledge his courage and presence of mind that had protected us both. The memory of our encounter with danger was still vivid in my mind – the stark fear when a police officer had suddenly flung open the closet door where we were hiding, his gun drawn and ready for any threat.

The tension in the air was intense and thick, an almost tangible cloud of uncertainty and fear. But Peter, with his characteristic composure, had immediately raised his hands, calling out, “We are unarmed!” His voice, steady and clear, had pierced through the haze of panic, effectively defusing the potentially explosive situation.

The officer, upon recognizing Peter, addressed him with a mix of respect and urgency. It was a testament to Peter’s reputation and standing in the community. His identity as a prominent lawyer granted us an unexpected level of safety in the chaos.

“We are fine,” Peter quickly reassured the officer, his tone composed yet conveying the urgency of our situation. He then requested assistance to find Sid and Jenn, ensuring not just our safety but the well-being of those we cared about.

Relief following the officer’s confirmation that the gunman had been apprehended was immense. In that moment, amidst the disarray and fear, it was a small yet significant mercy. It was a glimmer of order restored in the face of overwhelming chaos, a momentary easing of the tension that had gripped us since the onset of the crisis.

Our encounter in the closet, though brief, had been a profound reminder of the fragility of life and the unpredictable nature of danger. It had bound Peter and me in a shared experience of vulnerability and survival, a moment that, despite its brevity, had left an indelible mark on our relationship.


Page 6


==== The waves of shock and disbelief had not yet subsided when I found myself under the watchful care of a female police officer. Her presence was both comforting and a stark reminder of the unfolding tragedy. Lost in a maze of my thoughts, time seemed to stretch into an endless void, each minute longer than the last. It was in this state of dazed confusion that I finally saw Peter emerge from the church building. The sight of him was both relieving and alarming; his face was streaked with blood, painting a vivid picture of the horror inside.

Beside him, paramedics hurried along with a gurney that bore the unmoving form of Sid. The urgency in their movements was unmistakable, a silent testament to the severity of his condition. Sid’s head bore the brunt of his injuries, a stark, bloody contrast to his otherwise motionless body. Without thinking, I broke free from the crowd, my feet carrying me to Peter’s side in a frantic sprint.

As they loaded Sid into the ambulance, Peter, without hesitation, leaped in to accompany him. The doors of the ambulance rapidly closing just as I reached them. In a moment of desperate concern, I shouted to Peter over the din of the crowd and the wailing sirens.

“Did you see Jenn?” My voice was a mix of fear and hope, needing to know that she, at least, had been spared the worst.

Peter’s reply came through the narrowing gap of the closing ambulance doors. “She’s alive, but she’s hurt.” His words were brief, but they carried the weight of a thousand emotions.

As the ambulance doors sealed shut and the vehicle sped away, sirens blaring a path through the chaos, I yelled after them, my voice cracking with emotion, “I love y’all!” It was a heartfelt cry, a mix of relief, worry, and a deep-seated fear for what the future might hold.

Now, with the ambulance disappearing into the distance, a new worry took hold. Where was Jenn? The police had roped off the church, denying anyone re-entry. How could I ascertain her safety? An idea struck me. “If she’s alive, that heifer will answer a text,” I mumbled to myself, pulling out my phone with trembling hands.

I quickly typed out a message:

me: [Are you alive?] 

I watched my phone intently, the screen becoming the focal point of all my hopes. Seconds turned into minutes, each one passing with an unbearable slowness. Around me, the scene remained chaotic, a blur of activity and confusion, but all I could focus on was the silent phone in my hand.


Page 7


==== The bullhorn’s call from the police officer was clear and commanding, slicing through the muddled sounds of the crowd and my swirling thoughts. “If you were inside this church when this incident occurred, please come to me and provide your name.” His voice, amplified and authoritative, was a reminder that amidst personal turmoil, there were procedures to follow, a reality to confront.

“Will do,” I whispered to myself, my voice barely audible above the buzz of the crowd. But my immediate concern lay elsewhere - with Jenn. Our b-day plans, trivial as they seemed now, were in disarray. We had all arrived here with Jenn. “If she’s shot, I’ll kill her,” I half-joked under my breath, trying to inject some dark humor into the gravity of the situation. It was a coping mechanism, perhaps inappropriate, but necessary in the face of such uncertainty.

As these thoughts raced through my mind, the abrupt sound of my phone’s notification broke through the haze. It was a message from Jenn.

jenn: [I’m alive bitch❤️‍🩹]

A mix of relief and amusement washed over me. Leave it to Jenn to lighten the mood, even in the darkest of times.

me: [ Thought yo ass was in heaven, was gonna ask you to send me some gold back, off those streets 😇]

Her reply was quintessentially Jenn - practical with a hint of humor.

jenn: [ Lol. Use the key under the left rear bumper, taking me out the side door to Duke, meet me at the hospital]

me: [okay].

I pocketed my phone, feeling a momentary ease in the knot of anxiety that had tightened in my chest. Yet, as I stood there, the echoes of that fateful day two weeks ago crept back into my mind. The screams, the cries of children, their faces contorted in terror and confusion. These haunting images were imprinted in my memory. They were a stark reminder of the fragility of our existence, the unpredictable twists of fate that could unravel the normalcy of life in an instant.


Page 8


==== Redirecting my gaze to the front, I couldn’t help but notice Bree. She stood there, a solitary figure enveloped in a shroud of grief, her body language speaking volumes more than words ever could. The conversation she seemed to be having with Jarrod, or rather, with his memory, was far from a tender farewell. Instead, her face was etched with lines of anger and bitterness, emotions that seemed to radiate from her in waves.

In an almost symbolic gesture, Bree breached the bouquet of red long-stemmed roses, her fingers trembling slightly as she picked out three. There was a moment of stillness, almost as if she were contemplating her next move. Then, with a sudden burst of emotion, she drops them to the ground. Their petals fall in a sad, disjointed heap in front of his coffin. The three roses hitting the ground seemed to echo in the silent air. Turning abruptly, Bree walked away, her steps heavy with unspoken words and unresolved anger.

Peter and I exchanged a glance, a silent communication of shared disbelief at the scene unfolding before us. Our eyes then surreptitiously scanned the crowd, curious to see if this act of raw emotion had caught the attention of others. Indeed, it had. Among the mourners, Pastor Bill’s presence was noticeable. Ostensibly engaged in conversation with his wife, his attention was clearly elsewhere. His eyes, stealthily and intently, were fixed on Bree. There was an air of feigned nonchalance about him, but the undercurrents of concern – or was it guilt? I decided not to delve into that complexity, at least not at the moment. The web of emotions and relationships was too tangled, and Bree’s display of grief and anger added yet another layer of complexity to the tragic events.


Page 9


==== Peter and I rose from our seats, a sense of urgency propelling us forward—our next mission: retrieving Jenn B. from an overzealous fan who was captivated by her celebrity status. The woman was engrossed in conversation with Jenn, showering her with praise and admiration for her latest work. Sensing the right moment, I interjected, “Jenn, are you ready to go?”

Graciously, Jenn thanked the woman for her kind words and support for her new album, ‘Lessons in Love.’ With a mix of relief and politeness, we bid our farewells and finally made our way to the car. As we drove away, my mind, however, couldn’t help but drift back to Bree. The image of her carefully picking and dropping three red roses to the ground in front of Jarrod’s casket lingered in my thoughts. It was an action fraught with symbolism and emotion, something I had not witnessed before. What could have driven her to such a gesture?

The car ride to the hospital was enveloped in silence, but it was a comfortable one. Each of us seemed lost in our reflections, processing the day’s events in our own way. I sat in the front passenger seat, gazing absentmindedly out the window. At the same time, Jenn settled behind Peter, who was focused on navigating the car. The stillness of the ride was only broken by the sound of Jenn B’s latest hit, ‘Lessons in Love,’ playing through the car stereo.

The song, already climbing the charts and on its way to becoming number one, filled the car with its melodic tunes. Peter, ever the enthusiastic music fan, cranked up the volume. Soon, Jenn and I were singing along —the irony of singing a song about love after a day filled with so much loss and pain. Peter’s voice, off-key but full of spirit, joined our chorus. For a brief moment, the act of singing together lightened the heavy air, bringing a semblance of normalcy to an otherwise extraordinary and tragic day.


Page 10


==== The quiet echo of our footsteps resonated through the sterile, antiseptic halls of Duke University Hospital, breaking the solemn silence that had enveloped us. The gravity of the situation weighed heavily as we made our way to Sid’s room in the Intensive Care Unit. Upon entering, the scene that greeted us was one of raw, unfiltered grief. Mrs. Henry sat by her son’s bedside, her body shaking with sobs, a picture of a mother’s anguish. In stark contrast, Mr. Henry stood at the back of the room, a figure of stoic sorrow, his eyes brimming with unshed tears, struggling to maintain composure in the face of his son’s critical condition.

Flanking either side of Sid’s bed were two women preachers, their prayers fervent and intense as if trying to reach the heavens through sheer volume and passion. Their words, spoken in a different tongue, created an atmosphere that was both solemn and confusing. It was a scene of desperation, their voices echoing off the sterile walls, a testament to their faith and despair.

Peter, logically and decisively, ushered Mr. and Mrs. Henry away from this tableau of fervor. He asked us to follow, and we collectively stepped out into the hallway, leaving the preachers in their spiritual fervency.

Once outside, we formed a semi-circle around Peter, who now took on the mantle of Attorney Peter Arsenal, his demeanor shifting to one of professional assertiveness. He addressed Mr. and Mrs. Henry directly, his voice firm yet compassionate.

“I need your permission to clear the room,” Peter stated, his request unequivocal.

Mrs. Henry, her faith unwavering, responded with a hint of hesitation, “But they are praying for him; perhaps God will act on their petitions.”

“Your members have been praying for him around the clock for two weeks; please give me a chance to speak with him alone,” Peter insisted, his tone respectful but firm.

The tension in the air was tangible. Mr. Henry’s disapproval of Sid’s relationship with Peter, a known fact, found himself at a crossroads. Despite his reservations, he could not deny the undeniable bond of love that existed between his son and Peter. It was a connection so profound that not even their faith, their god, had been able to sever it. The decision that lay before him was not just about granting permission; it was about acknowledging and accepting the love that Sid and Peter shared, a love that transcended differences and judgments.


Page 11


==== “Okay, son, I will clear the room for you,” Mr. Henry said, his voice weary yet resonant with a newfound respect. The term ‘son’ hung in the air, marking a significant shift in his attitude towards Peter. It was a small word, but it carried the weight of acceptance and understanding. Upon Mr. Henry’s re-entry into the room, the fervent cries and shouts invoking the name of Jesus gradually quieted. Moments later, the door reopened, and Mr. Henry emerged, followed by the two preachers, their expressions somber and reflective.

Sid’s father held the door open, a silent invitation for Peter to enter. He nodded solemnly to Peter, a gesture of trust and permission. As Peter stepped into the room, the door closed softly behind him, leaving us in the hallway in a quiet sense of anticipation and solidarity.

Outside Sid’s room, we all engaged in subdued conversation. The Henrys expressed their gratitude to the preachers for their prayers and support. They were clergy from their church, and their presence was a testament to the unity in times of hardship. The preachers, feeling their duty at Sid’s bedside complete for the moment, decided to extend their ministry throughout the hospital, offering prayers and words of comfort to others.

Their attention immediately turned to Jenn, the noticeable bandage on her head drawing their concern. “What happened to your head, honey?” one of the preachers asked, her tone a blend of curiosity and concern.

Jenn, with a wry smile, responded, “Sid and I were in the same incident. I fared better than him, as you can see.” Her words were factual yet tinged with an underlying sadness. Sid’s condition was far more severe; he had been trampled during the chaos, suffering a concussion that led to his current state in a coma.

The preachers, moved by her situation, offered their spiritual support. “Would you like prayer?” one asked, extending a hand towards Jenn.

“Sure,” Jenn replied, her voice soft yet sincere. “You can never get too much prayer.” She smiled gently, accepting the preacher’s hand. 


Page 12


==== Jenn’s injury had become a focal point for well-wishers and prayer warriors alike. This was the fifth time this week someone had offered to pray for her healing. Her social media accounts – Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter – were flooded with messages of support and thousands of prayers from fans and followers. A YouTuber had initiated a live prayer session dedicated to her. The level of public attention and concern was overwhelming, a testament to her influence and the compassionate nature of her fanbase. Yet, I couldn’t help but think about the moment when those bandages would come off. The revelation of her shaven head was bound to be a shock. Jenn, always so particular about her appearance, would undoubtedly have a hard time coping with this drastic change. “Yep, they’d better pray hard,” I thought, “because when she sees her shaven head, watch out!”

My reverie was interrupted when the other preacher turned her attention to me, her face etched with genuine concern. “Would you like me to pray with you?” she asked.

“I’m good,” I replied, mustering as much politeness as I could. What she didn’t know was that I harbored a sense of pity for them. Their faces, worn and etched with the toll of their own life struggles, were like open books. Yet, they carried a steadfast belief, much like many others who find solace in their faith, that the hardships of this life paled in comparison to the promised rewards of their afterlife.

But as for me, the concept of what lay beyond this life remained a mystery, one shrouded in uncertainty and skepticism. The idea of an afterlife spent in perpetual adoration, chanting ‘holy, holy, holy’ to a deity seated on a throne, didn’t resonate with me. It seemed far from my idea of eternal peace and joy. To me, it felt more like an unending, monotonous ritual than a heavenly reward.


Page 13


==== I glanced over at Mr. Henry, noticing the familiar expression of resigned tolerance on his face. It struck a chord with me, reminding me so much of my grandfather. Both men, in their ways, had learned to navigate the intricate dynamics of living with deeply religious spouses. They attended church more as a gesture of familial harmony than from personal conviction. It was about maintaining peace at home rather than a devout expression of faith.

My grandmother, on the other hand, could be described as the epitome of religious fervor. Her commitment to her faith was so intense it felt like she personified the very concept of religion. If you Google search ‘religion,’ I wouldn’t be surprised if her picture pops up. The sect she belonged to was stringent in its doctrines, especially regarding the lifestyle and appearance of women. Makeup, pants, and any clothing revealing elbows or knees were strictly taboo. Cleavage was not just frowned upon; it was considered a cardinal sin. The mere act of wearing jewelry could earn you the label of a ‘Jezebel,’ which, in their lexicon, was synonymous with being a ‘hoe.’

Their wedding traditions were equally unconventional. Instead of exchanging rings, which they believed symbolized worldly vanity and a deviation from godly devotion, they would exchange watches. The symbolism was clear: the only ring that mattered was the metaphorical one in their noses, signifying their complete submission to their god.

Their views on televisions and newspapers were deemed unnecessary distractions, gateways to worldly thoughts that could corrupt their spiritual path. Despite this, my grandfather, much to my grandmother’s condemnation, had managed to secure a small radio and black-and-white television in his mancave. He would clandestinely catch up on the news and listen to various broadcasts, craving a connection to the outside world. At times, he would visit our house, lured by our color TV and the open discussions about current events he could have with my mother; it offered him a brief escape. My mother, bearing her deep scars from growing up under such a restrictive doctrine, would engage in these conversations with underlying resentment.

For my grandmother, even her choice of radio programs was limited to Christian broadcasts. However, she often admonished many of them for not hitting the ‘heavenly mark’ as per her strict standards. It was a world where everything was black and white, with little room for the myriad shades of colors that make up the human experience.


Page 14


==== My grandmother’s life story is one of profound simplicity and unwavering faith. Yet, it’s tinged with a sadness that’s hard to shake off. She never had the opportunity to attend school; her education was limited to the lessons she received while working for a white lady for whom she laundered clothes. It was this woman who taught her to read; however, the only material she ever learned to read was the Bible. This singular book became the lens through which she viewed the entire world, and her knowledge and understanding of life were constrained within those finite pages. As I think about it, my heart sinks. The thought of her living her whole life with such a narrow perspective always makes me feel a profound sense of loss - for the experiences she never had and the worldviews she never got to explore.

As her 100th birthday approaches, I often reflect on how she’s lived like a caged bird, her wings clipped by the narrow confines of her upbringing and beliefs. It’s not hard to see why the Bible was such a pivotal tool during times of slavery, with its narratives of submission and promises of delayed rewards. It was a book that could be used to justify and perpetuate agendas to keep minds confined and spirits subdued.

Lost in these thoughts, I felt a tear escape and roll down my cheek, quickly followed by another. I tried to catch them, to prevent the cascade of emotions from spilling over, but it was futile. My tears were relentless, each one a testament to the deep feelings of pity, sadness, and frustration that welled inside me.

Mrs. Henry must have noticed my silent weeping, though she misinterpreted its cause. She came over to me, wrapping me in a tight hug. In her embrace, I felt a mix of warmth and sorrow. She probably thought I was crying for Sid, and in a way, I was. But these tears were also for my grandmother, for her life, and all her constrained beliefs and missed opportunities.

“Sid is a fighter,” Mrs. Henry whispered, more to herself than to me, as she released me from the hug. Her voice carried a mix of hope and desperation, a mother clinging to the belief in her son’s strength and resilience.


Page 15


==== Mr. Henry stood apart from the rest of us, his demeanor reserved and his posture rigid. It was a reflection of the strict customs of their church, where physical expressions of affection, especially between men and women, were not encouraged. This rule extended even in times of grief and comfort. This tradition seemed to create an invisible barrier between him and the rest of us.

After Jenn had finished her prayer with the preachers – we excused ourselves from the Henry’s and the two clergy. The air felt heavy with emotion, and I sensed a collective need for a change of scenery, a brief escape from the weight of reality.

“Let’s visit the Atrium Cafe,” I suggested, the words slipping out before I could think. “I need a drink.”

Jenn shot me a knowing smile. “I’m almost certain Duke University Hospital doesn’t sell alcoholic beverages at The Atrium Cafe,” she quipped, her tone light and teasing.

Undeterred, I playfully retorted, “What about the VA Hospital across the street?” The absurdity of the suggestion struck us both, and we burst into laughter, a momentary release from the tension and sadness that shrouded us.

As our laughter subsided, I pulled out my iPhone and quickly composed a text to Peter, wanting to keep him in the loop about our excursion.

me: [ Hey, Jenn and I are roaming the hospital looking for alcoholic beverages; text when you ready ❤️‍]

Sending the message, I slipped the phone back into my purse. It felt good to have a moment of fun, a brief respite in the midst of the day’s emotional rollercoaster. Jenn and I, walking side by side, made our way to the Atrium Cafe, ready for a break and probably a non-alcoholic drink that would have to soothe our frayed nerves.


Page 16


==== Peter sat vigilantly by Sid’s bedside; the room was bathed in the soft glow of monitors and the rhythmic hum of medical equipment. His partner, Sid, lay still and silent, connected to the intricate web of life-sustaining technology. The room seemed to hold its breath, echoing the quiet tension. Peter’s gaze never wavered from Sid’s face, a face that had the memories of shared laughter, tender moments, and the warmth of love. Machines beeped softly, creating a symphony of hope and uncertainty.

Peter found himself entranced by each blip and spike, telling a story only the medical team understood. Yet, in that labyrinth of data, Peter sought a beacon of hope, a sign that Sid would soon awaken from the silent realm of the unconscious. He continued to speak softly to Sid as if his words could bridge the gap between where he was and where he wanted him to be. He expressed his longing for his return, as well as his crazy laughter and extravagant ways.

Come back to me, Sid,” Peter whispered, his voice a gentle plea. “The world feels a bit darker without your light. I miss the way your eyes light up when you smile, the warmth of your embrace. You’re the melody to my life, and right now, the symphony is incomplete.”

The machines continued their melodic dance, a constant reminder of the fragility of life and the resilience of the human spirit. Peter, however, clung to the hope that somewhere in the maze of beeping monitors and pulsating lines, Sid’s consciousness was stirring, ready to break free from the cocoon of unconsciousness. As the sun began to set, the room embraced a soothing stillness. Peter remained steadfast by Sid’s side. His love for Sid transcended the limitations of words and technology. 


 Page 17


==== Peter’s smartwatch vibrated with an incoming call; glancing down, he tapped the screen, his voice carrying a mix of exhaustion and hope.

“Hi, Mom.” The background noise of the hospital’s machinery hummed into the conversation, a stark reminder of the setting he was in.

From the other end of the line came the concerned voice of Peter’s mother. “Hi, son, how is Sid?” Her voice was warm and filled with worry, the concern of a mother extending beyond her child to someone she knew her son deeply cared about.

Peter’s response was tinged with a sense of helplessness. “Mom, he’s still unconscious; I don’t know what else to say or do.” As he spoke, tears began to well up in his eyes, each one a silent testament to his fear and frustration.

“Ask him a question you’ve never asked him before. He hears you. Sid will fight to answer you because he wants you to know; force him to wake up and speak. These words from his mother were filled with wisdom and an unwavering belief in the tenacity of the human spirit. “Call me when he wakes up, I love you both.”

The suggestion seemed to instill a new sense of hope in Peter. It was an idea born out of intuition and the deep understanding of a bond that transcended consciousness.

“Thanks, Mom, we love you too,” his voice cracking slightly with emotion.

Peter ended the call, a new determination in his heart. The advice from his mother not only offered a new approach but also reminded him of the unbreakable bond he shared with Sid. It was a connection that he believed could bring Sid back, even from the depths of unconsciousness.

Peter’s demeanor shifted. His mother’s words had given him something tangible to hold onto, a course of action in a situation where helplessness had begun to take root. It was a moment of subtle transformation.


Page 18


==== Peter rose from his chair and stood looking out the window; he noticed a young couple holding hands, the man carrying what appeared to be a newborn strapped safely in a car seat. Peter’s gaze was fixated on the young couple outside. Their intertwined fingers spoke of a shared journey, and the sight of the man cradling a newborn brought a poignant mix of emotions to Peter’s heart. The contrast between the couple’s joyous beginning and his current reality with Sid deepened the ache within him. The hospital room felt both claustrophobic and comforting, a cocoon of emotions that Peter couldn’t escape. He took a deep breath, composing himself before turning back to Sid.

Remembering his mother’s words, Peter decided to try something different. Leaning closer to Sid, he whispered, “Hey, love, there’s something I’ve never asked you before.” Surrounded by the rhythmic beeping of machines and the soft murmur of hushed whispers, the hospital room stood as a sanctuary of modern medicine.

Peter, his heart heavy with emotion, leaned closer to Sid. His voice, trembling with vulnerability, broke the sterile silence. Searching Sid’s face, his eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Sid. I need you, not just today, but for all the tomorrows. Will you marry me?”


Page 19


 ==== The question hung in the air, and Peter waited, hoping for a sign, a flicker of response from the man he held dear. The monitors continued their dance, and Peter’s heart echoed with each passing second. Peter grabbed Sid’s hand, keeping a watchful gaze on him; he couldn’t help but recall the shared dreams they had woven together. The places they had visited and the adventures they had planned – all of it now hung in the balance. He wished for Sid to wake up, not just for himself, but for the dreams they had crafted as a couple.

In the wake of Peter’s words, a gentle shift seemed to wash over the room. The persistent beeps of the monitors, once a stark reminder of reality, now hummed with a softer, almost hopeful tone. It was as though time itself had paused, and the world outside was holding its breath in anticipation.

Then, a tender miracle unfurled. Sid’s hand, resting in Peter’s, gave a gentle squeeze. Once, then twice – a silent affirmation.

“Squeeze my hand again if you’ll marry me,” Peter whispered, his voice a mixture of hope and fear. At that moment, Sid’s eyes fluttered open, meeting Peter’s gaze with a clarity that spoke volumes.

Overwhelmed, Peter lunged for the call button. “He’s awake! He’s awake!” he shouted into the speaker, his voice a crescendo of joy and urgency.

The response was immediate. “Doctor Bates, to ICU, stat!” echoed the nurse’s voice, tinged with excitement, over the hospital intercom; the moment marked not just an awakening but the beginning of a new chapter, one filled with hope, love and a promise for the future.


Page 20


==== Sid, struggling to focus, found Peter’s eyes. The intensity of their connection was real, a silent but profound communication that transcended the hospital room’s sterile environment. However, this moment of reconnection was swiftly interrupted as nurses, alerted by the change, hurried into the room. Peter was gently but firmly asked to step aside, allowing the medical staff to swarm around Sid, their expert hands and eyes quickly assessing his vital signs.

With a mixture of relief and anxiety, Peter retreated to the window, his fingers racing across his phone’s keyboard. He sent a message, simple but laden with deep emotion.

peter: [sid’s awake! 🥰]

The replies from Panya, Jenn, Mrs. Henry, and his mother came flooding in rapidly, a cascade of joyous words and tearful emojis lighting up the screen. Their messages, brimming with relief and happiness, mirrored the tumultuous joy surging in Peter’s heart.

Soon, Dr. Bates entered the room, his presence bringing an air of calm authority. His seasoned eyes quickly swept over Sid, taking in every detail of his condition. Approaching the bed, Dr. Bates asked with a mix of professional concern and genuine warmth, “How are you feeling, son?”

Sid, his voice barely above a whisper, struggled to form words through the fog of his awakening. Yet, what he said next resonated with profound meaning. “I’m getting married.”

The room, which seconds before was a hive of medical activity, fell into a hushed silence. Sid’s words, so unexpected yet so full of hope, surprised Peter. Sid’s look embodied an entire conversation. It was a gaze that spoke of shared history, of struggles endured, and a love that had proved its resilience in the face of life’s most daunting challenges.

The medical staff, sensing the depth of the moment, continued their assessments with a respectful quietude. Peter, overwhelmed with feelings of gratitude, love, and a sense of awe at the journey they had traversed together, knew that this was more than just a pivotal moment. It was the dawn of a new chapter in their lives.

Would you have handled any of these situations differently? We would love to hear your thoughts. Comment and Share!

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