Vigil
The surgeries on Edward had begun, and were now halfway completed. Riza had been helping Winry though them as much as she could, acting in a capacity comparable to a nurse assisting a surgeon, and it was getting harder to force herself to eat, to not worry herself sick at the times he was awake, conscious, and in extraordinary pain during the procedures, or the times between, when he was out, too still and too quiet, his breathing labored and his skin alternating between too cool, and too hot to the touch.
She was already starting to unravel at the edges; food was tasteless and left her stomach in knots, and sleep was a fitful stranger that left her feeling more drained than before. Memories and knowledge and fears tangled up constantly in dreams of death and blood, of late hours spent praying for just one more hour and then another. Winry kept assuring her that Edward was doing fine, that this was normal, that he would pull through just like he had before, that nothing was truly wrong, but it was the nights she sat up with him that felt too familiar and too frightening.
A little part of her kept suggesting she was too lucky, that it wasn't meant to last, those brief little moments of happiness. When had it ever, for either of them? He'd cheated death so many times already, what if the next moment, it would catch up with him? What if she wasn't there? What if she was but couldn't do anything, or did the wrong thing? What if, what if, what if.
Too weary to do anything and too frayed to sleep, she sat at bedside, listening to the sound of him breathe as she watched him.
She was already starting to unravel at the edges; food was tasteless and left her stomach in knots, and sleep was a fitful stranger that left her feeling more drained than before. Memories and knowledge and fears tangled up constantly in dreams of death and blood, of late hours spent praying for just one more hour and then another. Winry kept assuring her that Edward was doing fine, that this was normal, that he would pull through just like he had before, that nothing was truly wrong, but it was the nights she sat up with him that felt too familiar and too frightening.
A little part of her kept suggesting she was too lucky, that it wasn't meant to last, those brief little moments of happiness. When had it ever, for either of them? He'd cheated death so many times already, what if the next moment, it would catch up with him? What if she wasn't there? What if she was but couldn't do anything, or did the wrong thing? What if, what if, what if.
Too weary to do anything and too frayed to sleep, she sat at bedside, listening to the sound of him breathe as she watched him.