I SWEAR I AM NOT GOING TO CRY.
WHO: ANYONE.
WHEN: OCTOBER 1, 2009. AFTERNOON.
WHERE: FLORENCE MEMORIAL HOSPITAL.
WHAT: VISITING HOURS. KEEP YOUR DRAMA AT HOME.
So Peter skipped his afternoon literature class and came to the hospital with a bouquet of day-old flowers he bought at the convenience store for a dandy $9.99 plus tax.
Now, the Sealander was pacing back and forth in front of Berwald's room. To be exact, he had been walking in aimless circles for about a good fifteen minutes now. Part of him was thinking, Hey, let's wait for the others.
Part of him was thinking, Hey, man up. Part of him was thinking, Don't cry. Part of him was thinking, Oh dear God, what if the injuries are really bad and Papa will have some sort of permanent damages to his body and how am I going to deal with that?
A tiny part of him was thinking, You are only scaring yourself. Stop, silly eejit, stop.
Peter huffed, fingers tightened around the crinkling wrap of the withering flowers. He glanced to the number on the door. A nurse in too-bright pink scrubs walked by and gave him a questioning look. He looked away, eyes locked to the silver door latch. A shaking hand reached out. Stopped. Retracted back to his side.
C'mon, Peter. Be strong.
WHEN: OCTOBER 1, 2009. AFTERNOON.
WHERE: FLORENCE MEMORIAL HOSPITAL.
WHAT: VISITING HOURS. KEEP YOUR DRAMA AT HOME.
So Peter skipped his afternoon literature class and came to the hospital with a bouquet of day-old flowers he bought at the convenience store for a dandy $9.99 plus tax.
Now, the Sealander was pacing back and forth in front of Berwald's room. To be exact, he had been walking in aimless circles for about a good fifteen minutes now. Part of him was thinking, Hey, let's wait for the others.
Part of him was thinking, Hey, man up. Part of him was thinking, Don't cry. Part of him was thinking, Oh dear God, what if the injuries are really bad and Papa will have some sort of permanent damages to his body and how am I going to deal with that?
A tiny part of him was thinking, You are only scaring yourself. Stop, silly eejit, stop.
Peter huffed, fingers tightened around the crinkling wrap of the withering flowers. He glanced to the number on the door. A nurse in too-bright pink scrubs walked by and gave him a questioning look. He looked away, eyes locked to the silver door latch. A shaking hand reached out. Stopped. Retracted back to his side.
C'mon, Peter. Be strong.