Not Worth It -- A Tomorrow Trilogy Short
So lots of things are about to change as I overhaul the whole plot of the Tomorrow Trilogy. Some of the major things are remaining the same, but I felt like writing this scene because for whatever reason it was speaking to me. Enjoy.
“It’s not worth it, Savin,” Mari whispered, withdrawing her hand from the box. Tears streamed down her face, her lips twisted in a partial grimace. She looked towards him, her deep brown eyes pleading, begging him to give up. With a shaky hand, she brushed her hair out of her eyes, tucking it behind her ear. “She’s suffering like this. She’s never going to get better, this way.”
Savin frowned, ignoring the weight that rested on his chest. He couldn’t look inside the box -- couldn’t bear to see their daughter hooked up to various wires and IVs. She was hardly two weeks old, incapable of breathing on her own, eating on her own, regulating her own temperature. Everything. “If they would just --”
“They’re not going to, Savin,” Mari insisted, her tone growing more urgent. She moved in close to him, taking hold of both of his arms and looking him the eye. “She’s an NB.”
“Which means nothing,” Savin hissed through his teeth. He moved away from Mari and stepped closer to the incubator. Their daughter lay inside, her small chest rising with each assisted breath. “She’s still a human being -- they overturned the NB laws years ago --”
“As her mother, it’s my decision to make,” Mari said, crossing her arms over her chest. “We’re not married yet. They only need my word.”
The weight on his chest shifted, pressing directly over his heart. A fog filled the gaps of his mind as he stared at Mari, his mouth hanging open before clamping shut. Tears stung his eyes, causing him to look away from her.
“Fine,” he managed through gritted teeth. “Do whatever you want. Just -- just let me say goodbye to Danni, first.”
“I’ll go tell the doctor that we’re ready to let go,” Mari said, backing out of the small hospital room. Savin nodded, not daring to look at her as he kept his focus on the box and on his daughter’s labored breathing and her thin, near translucent skin. He slipped his hand through the hole in the box, taking hold of her little hand -- one that reflexively gripped his finger.
“I love you, kiddo,” he murmured, his voice choked with tears.
He couldn’t say as much about Mari -- not anymore.
“It’s not worth it, Savin,” Mari whispered, withdrawing her hand from the box. Tears streamed down her face, her lips twisted in a partial grimace. She looked towards him, her deep brown eyes pleading, begging him to give up. With a shaky hand, she brushed her hair out of her eyes, tucking it behind her ear. “She’s suffering like this. She’s never going to get better, this way.”
Savin frowned, ignoring the weight that rested on his chest. He couldn’t look inside the box -- couldn’t bear to see their daughter hooked up to various wires and IVs. She was hardly two weeks old, incapable of breathing on her own, eating on her own, regulating her own temperature. Everything. “If they would just --”
“They’re not going to, Savin,” Mari insisted, her tone growing more urgent. She moved in close to him, taking hold of both of his arms and looking him the eye. “She’s an NB.”
“Which means nothing,” Savin hissed through his teeth. He moved away from Mari and stepped closer to the incubator. Their daughter lay inside, her small chest rising with each assisted breath. “She’s still a human being -- they overturned the NB laws years ago --”
“As her mother, it’s my decision to make,” Mari said, crossing her arms over her chest. “We’re not married yet. They only need my word.”
The weight on his chest shifted, pressing directly over his heart. A fog filled the gaps of his mind as he stared at Mari, his mouth hanging open before clamping shut. Tears stung his eyes, causing him to look away from her.
“Fine,” he managed through gritted teeth. “Do whatever you want. Just -- just let me say goodbye to Danni, first.”
“I’ll go tell the doctor that we’re ready to let go,” Mari said, backing out of the small hospital room. Savin nodded, not daring to look at her as he kept his focus on the box and on his daughter’s labored breathing and her thin, near translucent skin. He slipped his hand through the hole in the box, taking hold of her little hand -- one that reflexively gripped his finger.
“I love you, kiddo,” he murmured, his voice choked with tears.
He couldn’t say as much about Mari -- not anymore.