Page 23 of Fractured Onyx

He clears his throat, turning away from the rest of the room as his gaze journeys to the window, seemingly interested in the landscape outside.

Grief already cloaks the entire room with its heavy coat, making it hard to breathe, hard to speak, hard to do anything but just stand there in disbelief. The doctor keeps treating Lailah, measuring her pulse, controlling her IV and checking her eyes with a tiny flashlight. Mike clears his throat next to us, and then heads for the door. It's just us, the doctor and Big George now, but I know there are other people in the house, because I can hear their muffled voices through the door.

And all of us are doing just one thing: waiting for Lailah to die.

Nate is standing next to me, so close that I can feel the warmth of his body and sense the tension that makes him stand stiffly and curl his hands into fists. He seems furious, as if he's hardly keeping it together, suppressing the urge to punch somebody's face in.

I can feel him relax a little when I reach for his hand, my fingers gently enclosing his strained fist as much as I can. He refuses to look at me, his eyes still locked on Lailah while his hand opens, seeking mine in support as our fingers intertwine tenderly.

"Oh, hello there," the doctor says, surprise coloring his voice while he leans over Lailah, who has just opened her eyes. She doesn't move, just drowsily meets the doctor's gaze and still looking more dead than alive.

"Is she awake?" Nate wants to know. "Or is this-"

He stops speaking when Lailah's gaze travels over to him, providing an unexpected answer to his question. He pulls me with him when he approaches the bed in two wide and hurried steps, while Big George does the same, coming from the other direction.

I don't know how to feel, being pushed back and forth between conflicting emotions. I feel useless and like a disturbance on one hand, sad and worried on the other—and jealous and neglected in a way that makes my stomach turn. I hate feeling this way, because it feels so misplaced.

I don't want to feel jealous, and I know it's not warranted, especially because Nate and Lailah were never an item. But they were friends, and partners in a way, working closely together on something that I'm still trying to understand. They've spent so much time together and share a history that I could never compete with.

But why would I even want to? I'm just a tool to him, a tool he has cruelly taken when he decided he needed it. He will be done with me, once all of this is over—and I will be done with him.

I should be.

I can't forget about all of this, even now when he's squeezing my hand in need for support, seemingly holding on to the person he needs most in this moment of hardship.

"Lailah, can you speak with us?" the doctor asks in a whisper, leaning in to her closely.

Lailah grimaces, looking pained as she tries to respond. At first, there's nothing but a croak, a hoarse sound that barely sounds human.

The concern is clear as day on the doctor's face, despite her efforts. He casts Nate an apologetic look.

"I can't do this again," he says, nodding toward the machine that has restarted Lailah's heart twice. "I won't. It wouldn't do any good."

Nate nods in understanding, while Big George holds on to the foot of the bed, doing the same as his face contorts in agony.

"Should I... leave?" I ask in a low voice, looking up at Nate.

He squeezes my hand tightly, still not looking at me but shaking his head violently. "No. You stay."

It's a command more than a request, not allowing any backtalk. I return the squeeze on his hand, offering a short-lived smile that goes past him.

We remain like that, holding hands as if neither of us would be able to stand without the other, and maybe that's true.

Lailah is fighting, desperately trying to hold on to that remaining blink of life still granted to her. It's obvious that she's trying to move, trying to let her head follow where her eyes travel.

And that direction has been the same from the first moment she woke up.

She's looking at us the whole time, only faintly reacting to the doctor when he addresses her. Her lashes are fluttering with effort as she tries to keep her eyes open while focusing on us.

"You don't have to speak, Lailah," the doctor says in a soothing voice. "Rest. Don't push yourself-"

"Get...," she breathes, grimacing under stress as she gasps for air. Her eyes widen, dashing back and forth between Nate and me, as if she was afraid we'd leave before she could say what she needs to share with us.

I can tell that Nate wants to speak to her, but something is stopping him. His lips are moving as if he was chewing the words instead of saying them. His face is distorted with pain, and I wish there was anything I could do to ease it. His grip on my hand tightens, when Lailah takes an especially deep breath, suggesting she's about speak again.

And she does. She gathers her last strength to leave us with a message that runs down my spine like a cold shower. It's a demand, a demand that asks for a promise I'm not sure I can give.

"Get it... done."

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