3AM.
Theo was awoken to the sounds of sirens outside the house, blue lights dancing across his wall through the gap in the curtain. For what seemed to him like a long time, he lay there, half asleep, watching them flash and cast long shadows across his room.
He heard, but disregarded the knock at the door, the sound of his father's concerned, heavy footsteps climbing downstairs. He also disregarded the shaky, troubled tones of his father in constrast to the official, hurried tones of the paramedics. Three sets of footsteps jog up the stairs, a door closes and near-silence falls again. It is broken only by the sharp, unfamiliar voices of the paramedics.
In Theo's drowsy just-woken-up mind, the pieces click together and he sits up, wide eyed in bed. Slowly, he rises from bed, and silently tiptoes out of his room. Peers into his parents room.
The next few moments are ones that Theo dismisses as terrible dreams, something to be recalled only in stop-motion.
His father paces, mother lies motionless.
The medics crowd round her. One of them, hands pressed tight together, presses his hands sharply up and down on her chest.
Up, down, up, down. Rhythm, beat, sound.
Beat to whatever tempo you desire, waltz me slow or twirl me tight, just so long as you never let me go.
But he sees the mask obscuring her face, hair pushed out of the way. The younger of the two paramedics raises his head, catches the eye of the other.
Shakes his head. Both rise uniformly, and turn to his father.
Arthur Alexander Quinn, down to earth, bright and cheerful as day, the type to whistles while he works.
His face crumples like paper crushed by a fist.
Theodore returns to his room, and continues to stare vacantly at the ceiling, thoughts numbed. The more he thinks about it, the more it will feel real.
Already, he is dividing his life into Before and After.
Theo was awoken to the sounds of sirens outside the house, blue lights dancing across his wall through the gap in the curtain. For what seemed to him like a long time, he lay there, half asleep, watching them flash and cast long shadows across his room.
He heard, but disregarded the knock at the door, the sound of his father's concerned, heavy footsteps climbing downstairs. He also disregarded the shaky, troubled tones of his father in constrast to the official, hurried tones of the paramedics. Three sets of footsteps jog up the stairs, a door closes and near-silence falls again. It is broken only by the sharp, unfamiliar voices of the paramedics.
In Theo's drowsy just-woken-up mind, the pieces click together and he sits up, wide eyed in bed. Slowly, he rises from bed, and silently tiptoes out of his room. Peers into his parents room.
The next few moments are ones that Theo dismisses as terrible dreams, something to be recalled only in stop-motion.
His father paces, mother lies motionless.
The medics crowd round her. One of them, hands pressed tight together, presses his hands sharply up and down on her chest.
Up, down, up, down. Rhythm, beat, sound.
Beat to whatever tempo you desire, waltz me slow or twirl me tight, just so long as you never let me go.
But he sees the mask obscuring her face, hair pushed out of the way. The younger of the two paramedics raises his head, catches the eye of the other.
Shakes his head. Both rise uniformly, and turn to his father.
Arthur Alexander Quinn, down to earth, bright and cheerful as day, the type to whistles while he works.
His face crumples like paper crushed by a fist.
Theodore returns to his room, and continues to stare vacantly at the ceiling, thoughts numbed. The more he thinks about it, the more it will feel real.
Already, he is dividing his life into Before and After.
