CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT
Chapter Nine
PAGE SEVEN OF SEVEN
She doesn't know how she's been managing to fool the doctors all this time – which upon consideration opens up all sorts of possibilities as to his actual level of awareness – but now that she confronts the likelihood, it definitely explains a number of things. Little things, just at the corner of her awareness, subtle bits of movement. And then the not so subtle, really, like what had happened at the doctor's reception. Or did she think that the reception had wheeled him over on that day, as well? That's right, all of these women have been wheeling her husband around when her back is turned, because they all just love him so much. That's how powerful a hold he has on them, oh yeah mister, you've got them all fooled, all right. What's a little vegetative state when you're such a number one hit with the ladies, right?
Wendy squeezes her fists at her sides and begins to shake in the growing shadows of the kitchen. Just when she's thinking he's done making a fool of her, and now this-
She breaks into a forceful stride that propels her through the kitchen and directly into the living room. Desmond is still sitting where she had left him earlier, still staring at the curtains, or rather through the curtains, he is staring through the curtains across the street at the neighbours house. At Carolyne Roberts. Bastard, Wendy thinks as she approaches Desmond. Her husband just got home!
She stops next to Desmond, stares at the side of his face. Now he is perfectly still, every part of him locked into a frozen vigil before the curtains. His eyes seem like slow lenses recording through the window, his head a winding down camera booth playing a private show that she has no ticket to...
“Desmond.” No response from him. He doesn't even seem to breathe. She feels her anger spread out from her chest and dissipate along her arms and legs. In it's place a tremor of uncertainty rolls through, making her clutch her arms and lean back on her heels. But she doesn't look away.
“You've been wheeling yourself around. That much is pretty obvious. But what I want to know is: what else are you able to do?” She unfolds her arms and places her hands on her hips, leans in closer to him. She can smell him now, smell his breath, the toothpaste on his breath. She had brushed his teeth for him not one hour ago, hadn't she? And he had let her.
Wendy leans down suddenly and shouts into Desmond's ear. “Desmond! What else have you been doing?”
He doesn't move. He won't move for her. He just sits there with his eyes plastered through the curtains staring at the lady neighbour across the street, staring at the woman across the street that he fucked, he fucked her, and for his own wife he won't even MOVE-
“DESMOND!” She grips his shoulder, her fingernails digging into the soft pliable flesh. And just like that, in a flash, his eyes snap onto her own. She has time to register his shoulder turning from soft dough to rock hard muscle, and then she is suddenly flying through the air, pinwheeling through space, the world spinning before her eyes, and just as sudden she lands in a heap onto the hardwood floor and slides through the entrance to the dining room, knocking over a chair before sliding to a slow stop with her body half underneath the the dining room table.
Everything goes dark for a while. In fact, to Wendy it seems that she is still blacked out even after she regains consciousness, as it takes her a while to realize that she is staring at the underside of the dining room table. She blinks rapidly and takes a few breaths, shaking her head slowly before rising carefully to her elbows. She cranes her head forward, and through her blurred vision she sees Desmond at the window, still sitting, still facing the same direction as before. It is as though nothing had ever happened.
Wendy reels and lies back, her head spinning. What – what had happened? Did she do this to herself? Was she going mad? The stress... she had been under so much stress...
Slowly Wendy feels herself slipping back into unconsciousness. The soundless black seems to claim her for a while and then the thought that this is not good, she had to wake up – this thought brings her eyes open with her face turned to the side, and then she sees the wheels of Desmond's chair, right next to her, inches from her face. Desmond... The wheels glide soundlessly past her, rolling smoothly out of her sight.
Her eyes flutter closed again, one last time, and against the darkness she sees Desmond, she sees both of his faces. She sees him looking as he did before the accident, and she sees him as he looks after the accident. His faces seem to shift and blend across the stage of her mind, and then the darkness deepens into a heavy black that creeps in on her and swallows her whole.
Wendy squeezes her fists at her sides and begins to shake in the growing shadows of the kitchen. Just when she's thinking he's done making a fool of her, and now this-
She breaks into a forceful stride that propels her through the kitchen and directly into the living room. Desmond is still sitting where she had left him earlier, still staring at the curtains, or rather through the curtains, he is staring through the curtains across the street at the neighbours house. At Carolyne Roberts. Bastard, Wendy thinks as she approaches Desmond. Her husband just got home!
She stops next to Desmond, stares at the side of his face. Now he is perfectly still, every part of him locked into a frozen vigil before the curtains. His eyes seem like slow lenses recording through the window, his head a winding down camera booth playing a private show that she has no ticket to...
“Desmond.” No response from him. He doesn't even seem to breathe. She feels her anger spread out from her chest and dissipate along her arms and legs. In it's place a tremor of uncertainty rolls through, making her clutch her arms and lean back on her heels. But she doesn't look away.
“You've been wheeling yourself around. That much is pretty obvious. But what I want to know is: what else are you able to do?” She unfolds her arms and places her hands on her hips, leans in closer to him. She can smell him now, smell his breath, the toothpaste on his breath. She had brushed his teeth for him not one hour ago, hadn't she? And he had let her.
Wendy leans down suddenly and shouts into Desmond's ear. “Desmond! What else have you been doing?”
He doesn't move. He won't move for her. He just sits there with his eyes plastered through the curtains staring at the lady neighbour across the street, staring at the woman across the street that he fucked, he fucked her, and for his own wife he won't even MOVE-
“DESMOND!” She grips his shoulder, her fingernails digging into the soft pliable flesh. And just like that, in a flash, his eyes snap onto her own. She has time to register his shoulder turning from soft dough to rock hard muscle, and then she is suddenly flying through the air, pinwheeling through space, the world spinning before her eyes, and just as sudden she lands in a heap onto the hardwood floor and slides through the entrance to the dining room, knocking over a chair before sliding to a slow stop with her body half underneath the the dining room table.
Everything goes dark for a while. In fact, to Wendy it seems that she is still blacked out even after she regains consciousness, as it takes her a while to realize that she is staring at the underside of the dining room table. She blinks rapidly and takes a few breaths, shaking her head slowly before rising carefully to her elbows. She cranes her head forward, and through her blurred vision she sees Desmond at the window, still sitting, still facing the same direction as before. It is as though nothing had ever happened.
Wendy reels and lies back, her head spinning. What – what had happened? Did she do this to herself? Was she going mad? The stress... she had been under so much stress...
Slowly Wendy feels herself slipping back into unconsciousness. The soundless black seems to claim her for a while and then the thought that this is not good, she had to wake up – this thought brings her eyes open with her face turned to the side, and then she sees the wheels of Desmond's chair, right next to her, inches from her face. Desmond... The wheels glide soundlessly past her, rolling smoothly out of her sight.
Her eyes flutter closed again, one last time, and against the darkness she sees Desmond, she sees both of his faces. She sees him looking as he did before the accident, and she sees him as he looks after the accident. His faces seem to shift and blend across the stage of her mind, and then the darkness deepens into a heavy black that creeps in on her and swallows her whole.