?

Log in

Previous Entry | Next Entry

In The Name Of - Sweat Out The Fever

SERIES: In The Name Of
DISCLAIMER: 100% totally mine
RATING: PG-13 or so...?
PAIRING: Annabel and Marlow I guess, but that's not the point.
WORD COUNT: 644
NOTES: I'm sorry if I didn't do marfan syndrome justice. I've never had it or known anyone with it so I had to rely on the internet to try and depict it right. ^^;
PROMPT/REQUEST: 7rainbowprompts - RED SET - #4. Sweat Out The Fever



Annabel’s hands shook as she filled the water basin. She didn’t understand what was happening to him, exactly. She never really understood what it was that was wrong with him. She never thought she’d need to. He was never well, she knew that though. His long, thin arms told her more than enough about his physical state, but now he was in bed, clothes sticky with sweat and his mind clouded with a fever, but she didn’t feel lost. She may have been confused and inexperienced, but she knew what had to be done.

She took the now full basin back with her as she walked in his, no; their room, setting it down gently beside the bed. She took the cloth off his head, dunking the warm fabric in the cool water, wringing it out and putting it back on his forehead.

She didn’t hear him thank her. She was too far gone, too alone. Their son was never home; he was too busy planning his life, even if he was only fifteen and too young for such talk. She didn’t have family, or at least, wouldn’t say if she did. His family lived far away. By the time new reached them it would be old and out dated, so she didn’t bother. She just sat on the floor, wondering why he had to get sick. Wondering how he had gotten sick. He was always already sick, he didn’t deserve an illness. He didn’t deserve what it was doing to him.

Marlow’s breath was hitching, struggling. His lungs were trying desperately to get air. The doctor was on leave and when Annabel had spoken to the nurse she was told there was nothing that could be done. This wasn’t something he could sweat out.

So Annabel sat there on the floor, making his time as comfortable as she could as his lungs collapsed. She remembered it had something to do with the pleural space but she couldn’t think coherently as her choked sobs (that she had sworn to herself she’d hide) over powered the sounds of his labored breath.

She felt a hand touch her head lightly. She grabbed his hand with her own and looked up at him. He was pale, and his hand seemed to almost be a blue shade. She scrambled up quickly, still holding his hand, trying to remember what she’d been taught about CPR as Marlow just shook his head jerkily. She fell back to her knees, just looking at him and without letting go. She was only fooling herself. He knew what was happening, of course he did; why wouldn’t he?

So she held his hand, fingers laced between each others, as she watched his breath slow, still desperate and needy. His death wasn’t like what she might have expected; his breath calming to a slow to a calm steady pace before stopping, his eyes closing as the life slipped out of him. No, it was nothing like that. His breath grew slower and weaker but never calmed down. If anything it got more frantic as his mind accepted death and his body struggled to keep pumping. His eyes never closed, instead they stayed just as they were as he died; squinted open and painful, looking right into hers. There was something eerie about his lifeless form that made Annabel get up and leave the room, taking the basin with her out of habit.

She thought that she’d have to be pried away from the form of the man she loved; but now she was in the kitchen, dumping out the water and trying to stop crying as just the thought of looking at him again unnerved her, let alone touching him as he was. She had no idea how to keep going from where she was. Her hands were still shaking. She’d never been so lost.