Acoma.

The doctor is telling us that Kingsley is in a vegetative state. He’s saying things about swelling in the brain due to the impact and that he might wake up in the next few days, weeks, or never.

This hotshot surgeon spent hours working on my friend with his people, and yet he still couldn’t bring him back.

He was in the operating room for hours, just to tell us that King might or might not wake up. I don’t miss the fake sympathy or his attempts not to give hope.

But even if I grab and shake him, then punch him in the face, it won’t bring King back, and it sure as fuck won’t serve any purpose. Except for maybe getting rid of some of my pent-up frustration.

Gwyneth listens to the doctor’s words with her lips slightly parted. They’re lifeless and pale, like the rest of her face. She clinks the nails of her thumbs and forefingers together in a frantic, almost manic type of way. It’s a nervous habit she’s had since she was a kid—since she learned the truth about her mother.

She flinches slightly with each of the doctor’s explanations, and I can see the exact moment hope starts dimming from her colorful eyes.

Because she has a tell.

Whenever she’s sad or under the weather, the blue-gray will dim out the green, nearly eating it out like a storm would swallow a bright sky. And just like that, the signs of rain condense in the form of moisture in her reddening lids.

She doesn’t cry, though.

No clue if it’s due to Kingsley’s upbringing or the missing piece she’s been searching for since she learned about her mother, but Gwyneth doesn’t cry in public.

At least, not since she was a pre-teen.

She just keeps jamming her nails against each other, irritating the cut on her forefinger over and over again.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

And with each clink, she’s burying something inside. A needle, a knife, or something sharper and way deadlier. She’s swallowing the poison while being well aware of its lethality.

Due to my line of work, I’ve seen countless people’s reactions to grief. Some have mental breakdowns, others express it in any physical form possible, whether it’s screaming, crying, hitting, or sometimes, straight out murder.

The emotion is so strong that reactions differ from one human to another. But the ones who suffer from it the most are those who pretend everything is fine. Those who stand tall and treat the occurrence like any ordinary day.

Unless they’re psychopaths or have lost their sense of empathy, that’s not normal. Gwyneth sure as hell doesn’t have any antisocial tendencies, so she’s digging her own grave with those bloodied nails right now.

As soon as the doctor finishes his dialogue, he says we can see Kingsley, but only through a window since he’s still in the ICU.

Gwyneth steps in the direction of her father’s room, but her feet falter and she sways. I catch her by the upper arm before she falls, my hand flexing around it to steady her.

“I’m fine.” Her voice is low, lethargic even.

I release her as soon as she’s able to keep her balance. The last thing I want to do is touch her.

Or be near her.

But her state is abnormal and needs to be monitored. It’s safe to say that Kingsley was—is—her world, not just her father. He’s her mother, brother, and best friend, so no, I don’t believe for one second that she’s fine.

Gwyneth’s steps are stiff and unnatural as she crosses the way to the room. She stands in front of the glass and freezes. Completely. She’s not even blinking—or breathing properly. Her chest rises and falls in a strange manner that leaves her in a near-panting state.

I stride to where she is and observe the scene that’s responsible for her reaction.

The view of the hospital bed is as ominous as the liquid that’s slowly trickling into his veins from the IV.

King’s arm is in a cast and his chest is all bandaged up, but that’s not the worst part. It’s the galaxy of blue, violet, and pink covering his face and temples. It’s the cuts across his forehead and on his neck. The gruesome scene stands out in minuscule ugly details against the whiteness of the sheets and the bandages.

“Dad…” Gwyneth’s chin trembles as she slams both her hands against the glass. “Hey, wake up. You said we’d have lunch together tomorrow. I even picked out my outfit for the day. It took me a long time, you know, so you can’t just bail on me.”

I step back, not wanting to interrupt her moment, but I can still hear her voice. The quiver in it, the desperation behind it, the denial lacing it.

Everything.

“Dad…stop pretending to be asleep. You’re a morning person, remember? You hate sleeping too much.” She digs her nails in the glass. “Daddy…you promised to never leave me alone. You said you’re not her, right? You’re not irresponsible like Mom, not cruel like her, or as heartless. You’re…you’re my dad. My best friend and everything. Best friends don’t go to sleep without notice, so wake up! Wake up, Dad!”

She bangs her fists against the glass with an increasing strength that shakes her slim shoulders.

Her voice turns hoarse and bitter the longer she calls for King. The denial is evident in each of her screams and bangs.

I walk up to her and reach out but then pause. I’m not supposed to be touching Gwyneth. Not for any reason.

But if I don’t stop her, she’ll break her hands or slip into a hole in which no one will be able to find her.

That’s what she does when she’s overwhelmed. She hides. And she does it so well that it’s impossible to get through to her unless she’s the one who makes herself visible again.

I don’t allow myself to think as I grab her by the shoulder. “You need to stop, Gwyneth.”

“Let me go. I’m fine.” She rotates her shoulder in an attempt to loosen my grip on her, but I only tighten it.

“Your father is in a coma. You’re allowed to not be fine.”

“He’s not in a coma. He will wake up.” She bangs her palm on the window again. “Wake up, Dad. This isn’t true. Wake up!”

She starts flailing her arms, and I recognize the signs of a panic attack as they slowly materialize in her. The shortness of her breath, the beads of sweat on her forehead, and the trembling of her lips. She probably doesn’t even realize that her psyche is hanging off the edge.

I grab her other shoulder and jerk her around to face me. “Gwyneth,stop.”

She flinches, a tremor seizing her whole body. I probably shouldn’t have been that stern, but it worked.

Her hands fall to her sides, but the shaking doesn’t stop. If anything, it’s stronger, more subconscious and without any apparent pattern. She stares up at me with those mesmerizing eyes that are stuck in the blue-gray mode, suffocating all the green that’s trying to peek through.

Fuck the way she looks at me.

As if I'm a god with all the answers and solutions. As if I’m the only one who can make everything right.

I’ve always hated the way Gwyneth looks at me. Correction, I’ve loathed it since her eighteenth birthday party when she demolished the brick wall that separated us.

Because the god she sees in me? That one is most definitely a demon in disguise.