michael: patron saint of youdles. (korny) wrote in tally_marks, @ 2012-05-05 15:56:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! [1998-05] may 1998, michael corner |
WHO: Michael and Rhona Forsythe Corner.
WHAT: A reunion!
WHERE: St. Mungo's Spell Damage Ward.
WHEN: 5 May 1998, afternoon.
Michael was sick of St. Mungo's. He'd been to the hospital plenty of times in his life, considering his childhood propensity for doing things like jump off of buildings in misguided attempts to fly, but he'd always been fixed up quickly and had never had to spend the night before, let alone many nights. He longed for privacy, for being able to do things without Healers hovering over him, for feeling well, but most of all, he just longed for home. He wanted to be in the little townhome in Bedford he'd been living in his whole life, in his own bedroom with his own sheets and his own posters on the walls and his cat. He just wanted to be home. That was one of the things he'd most wanted all year, to go home. Right now, he was playing solitaire with the deck of playing cards that his nurse had given him. He didn't even really like solitaire, but it was something to do and he had no visitors. Padma and Anthony and his brother and dad had said that they'd be coming back today, but none of them had showed up so far. That was okay. He couldn't really expect them to spend every waking moment in the hospital with him. It wasn't as though St Mungo's was a fun place to be, or he was a fun person to be around right now. His hair was rumpled and he was tired and he was depressed and his nose kept running (though his nurse had also yelled at him and given him a box of tissues and confiscated his jumper which was, she said, a 'public health hazard'). Except it wasn't okay, because he was feeling incredibly lonely. He wasn't really sure why. It wasn't as though he had any of shortage of people around to talk to if he wanted. But most of them weren't people that he knew well, and he felt somehow distant and separated from them. He felt distant from everyone, really, though he couldn't articulate why he felt that way, either. What he really wanted was to talk to Terry, but he was ashamed to admit that he didn't know what to say to him. "Sorry your sister's dead, anything I can do?" seemed pathetic when there wasn't anything he could do. He couldn't even send Terry one of those grief casseroles, because he was in the hospital. Michael was thinking that maybe he'd ask if he could get up and go visit Lavender again when the sound of someone entering the ward took his attention away from his sad game of solitaire. He had become used to people coming in and out as they visited, and maybe he should have just ignored them, but curiosity always got the better of him, even though seeing families reunited was painful and made him feeling ugly hatred and jealousy towards people who in no way deserved it. He didn't want to see that and feel that again, but he couldn't help himself. He wanted to know who it was. And he couldn't believe it. Maybe he was dreaming. But he couldn't be dreaming, and even if he was... "Mum!" Michael couldn't really properly bound out of bed, but he could get up and he could sort of run and he'd only taken a few steps before her arms closed around him, because she had been running too, and he got what he had really wanted all year: to be hugged by his mother. She was alive. After all the time he'd spent wondering if she was dead, even thinking of her as being dead, she was alive and she felt the same when she hugged him. She even looked the same, he thought, though his eyes were blurry with tears. She looked tired and there was a grey streak in her hair that hadn't been there before, but she was alive and she was all right and she was his mum. For a long moment, he just let her hold him, because even though he had friends, good friends, the best friends, it felt like she was the only one who could really put him back together after everything. His mother was the one who was supposed to take care of him, and it wasn't just that, it was that he had missed her so much. Michael was crying. Not pretty, delicate tears, but ugly, messy tears, and his nose was running and he was shaking and he wanted to make himself stop but he couldn't. She was rubbing his back and saying something, "Oh, Michael, sweetheart, don't cry. It's okay now." He wasn't crying because it wasn't okay. It was because he was so relieved and happy and also because he'd been holding back so many times he wanted to cry this year. "We thought you might be dead," he said. "I thought you were dead." There were so many other things he wanted to say, but he couldn't get those words out. "Of course I'm not dead. I had to be safe so that I could come back to you and your brother and your dad." Maybe Michael should have had more faith in her. That she was smart and strong and she could make it. But even with all of the times that he'd tried to tell himself that, helplessness had overwhelmed him. They had all been so helpless. He took a deep, sharp breath (which still hurt, a little) to try and calm himself. "I'm just -- glad you're back," he said. He could see his brother and dad standing off to the side, but right now, he didn't really care about them. They'd been here all along. "Now," Rhona Corner said, in the same familiar tone that she used when telling him it was his turn to do the dishes, "You're going to lay back down on your bed and tell me all about your year and how you ended up in St Mungo's." "But I want to know what happened to -- " "I don't care how curious you are, Michael. I am a mother and when mothers' sons are in the hospital, they get first right of worrying. Now sit down before I make you do it." |