Raise Up, Heart - Leta Blake Page 0,2

business, he’s dressed in nice clothes and he has a bundle of files in his hands, paperwork of some kind, and he looks lost. You watch as he stops in the middle of the hallway, his eyes going distant and strange.

You know, you understand, and you’ve felt it too—Dr. Damon Black should be here, and you want him to be. You expect that at any point, around any corner, the nurses will be scurrying away from his commanding voice. Damon had been the kind of doctor who came at his job with all the sheer force of his will.

You are just about to call out to Cole, to greet him, when his lips twist with grief, and he brings the back of his hand to his mouth, holding back tears. It isn’t fair that he lost Damon. They didn’t have enough time together. It isn’t fair that you’re alive when Damon is gone. Cole sobs softly and you freeze.

Pain, breathless violent, soul-rending pain.

The world goes black around you, and you taste blood in your mouth.

“Oh, God, Alex! Are you—? Someone! We need help!”

It’s Cole. His hands are on you, and you grab hold of them, holding them to your chest, as you stare up at him, feeling as wild-eyed as he looks. He’s in a panic now, his tears are still wet on his face and his breathing comes unnaturally fast.

His lips are red and open, and he’s saying something to you, and you want him to keep talking.

“Alex, what’s wrong? Is it his heart?”

The clatter of feet on the hospital floor, and the soft thud of knees and legs hit the ground beside you, as Cole is pulled back, away. And you’re stuck being checked by a man who introduces himself as Dr. Jones and three nurses, all of them touching you at once. Cole stands to the side of the hospital bed you’ve somehow landed in, his arms crossed over his chest, with his eyes wrecked and vulnerable.

“How’s my heart?” you whisper, as the monitors beep away.

Across the room, Cole flinches.

Your heart? Or is it Damon’s heart?

Honestly, you no longer know.

Emily holds an ice pack to your lip and runs her fingers through your hair soothingly. The hospital has summoned her despite your assurances that it’s unnecessary, that you’re fine, and it was just a strange, sudden blackout.

Even as you say the words, you know that they aren’t convincing: a recent heart transplant patient falling on his face, busting his lip, with only a report of a strange, intense pain to explain it, is not apt to be sent along home without a battery of tests being run. You know that, and you accept it. Any resistance has left you for good, drummed out of you by Damon’s heart and replaced with a deep, painful shame.

You also know that it’s more than that. You sit in the hospital gown, your hands crossed in your lap, and Emily hovers by your side. You try not to think of how Cole had stood beside your bed ten minutes ago, messy blond hair aglow and eyes red with tears. You try not to remember how he commanded you to get well, saying, “It’s his heart. It’s all that’s left of him. Do this for me. Please.”

Emily says, “Are you feeling better? You’re so quiet.”

You sigh and shrug. “I’m okay.” You try to sound jovial. “Just a little wounded pride is all.”

Emily is unconvinced, and her fingers twine into your hair, taking the short strands into her fist.

Fistful, short, and soft. Cole’s soft sigh as you command him.

You shiver hard.

Emily puts the ice pack down and turns fully to you, carding both her hands through your hair, messing it.

“So strange,” she says softly.

“What?” you ask. Have you said it aloud? The memories that assault you as sensation—have they translated into words?

“Your hair,” she murmurs. “It’s…different.”

You attempt a chuckle, a shock of panic jolting you. “Different? I need a cut, if that’s what you mean.”

“No… it’s…” Emily shakes her head. “Never mind. It’s silly. It’s nothing. More than that,” she says cheerily. “It’s impossible.”

Your false smile fades even more. “Just tell me,” you say.

She shrugs, shakes her head a little, and scrunches up her face in an endearing way, and messes with your hair again. “It’s just coming in wavy is all, and kind of strawberry-gold? It sort of… looks like Damon’s.”

You swallow and nod. Somehow, this is what you are expecting.

You feel claustrophobic in your own skin, like it doesn’t belong to