He sat by her side, watching her silently. Her face, though pale, shone with a certain glow of serenity, a peace with an understanding only the Giver and she the receiver could ever grasp. He comprehends not, nothing of this situation, other than seeing it as the biggest hurdle ever placed in his path. Given the choice he'd curse the very hand which struck her down to such unnerving condition. If dug deep enough, the pits of his heart would show evidences of hatred and anger dwelling; a wrath for the Hand which refused to pick her up from the realms of the undead. A wrath so sinful, so unholy, so short sighted.
Yet he knows that this was the path she chose, to honour the One she claimed to have lived her life for. He had nothing but compliance to express his undying love for her.
The ever trite, ever cliched phrase rang in his head, beating the sides of his temple like a pendulum. If you love her, let her go. He stared at her eyes; they looked beautiful albeit the fact that her lids were tightly sealed with the curse of a deep, deep sleep. Her eyelashes curled with a flair so profound, so beautiful that he could almost kiss her lips and the lids which her beautiful eyes hid within would flutter open and gaze into his. She has not done that for a long time now.
He contemplated on the decision he made which started this whole issue, one he thought was right for her...one which destroyed her to the degree of unwaking death. Staring at the eyes hidden behind delicate lids he cursed himself for being such an inane person, and swore that he would crucify himself for the fact that he might never gaze into her deep hazel eyes anymore.
He prayed about the decision.
Yet was this what the good Lord wanted to happen?
Isabelle, the sweet, sweet love of his life.
Ever so fragile, so tender, so delicate.
So... lifeless.
The machine, cold and emotionless, beeped softly to the beats of her frail heart. Slightest disturbance, the experts said, would provoke her fragility and be of nothing but no good to her. He questioned not the credibility of the doctors' warnings, but the one thing he doubted was the faith he had in the Healer Himself.
When will He descend His touch from Above, and wake her up from this curse?
Or rather... will He?
"You are all I have, Isabelle. Please don't go," he pleaded. He placed his hand on hers, warm and soft. She's thinned so much, he thought. I could almost feel her bones.
And as if a spark flew from the moment their skin got in contact, she took an unexpected deep breath, one so sudden and abrupt that it made him jump right out of his skin.
He stared at her, bewildered, not knowing what to do.
She exhaled. Inhaled. Exhaled. Inhaled.
She was grasping for air. Or so he thought. The serenity and peace which were written all over her face a moment ago, like a crystal vase falling off its mantel piece, broke out into chaos and shattered away into a chasm of nothingness.
The once emotionless machine was now beeping with wratch and fury. That was enough to push all his panic buttons.
Jacques let out an exasperated yell and scrambled out of the room in search for a doctor.
(To be continued)
The ever trite, ever cliched phrase rang in his head, beating the sides of his temple like a pendulum. If you love her, let her go. He stared at her eyes; they looked beautiful albeit the fact that her lids were tightly sealed with the curse of a deep, deep sleep. Her eyelashes curled with a flair so profound, so beautiful that he could almost kiss her lips and the lids which her beautiful eyes hid within would flutter open and gaze into his. She has not done that for a long time now.
He contemplated on the decision he made which started this whole issue, one he thought was right for her...one which destroyed her to the degree of unwaking death. Staring at the eyes hidden behind delicate lids he cursed himself for being such an inane person, and swore that he would crucify himself for the fact that he might never gaze into her deep hazel eyes anymore.
He prayed about the decision.
Yet was this what the good Lord wanted to happen?
Isabelle, the sweet, sweet love of his life.
Ever so fragile, so tender, so delicate.
So... lifeless.
The machine, cold and emotionless, beeped softly to the beats of her frail heart. Slightest disturbance, the experts said, would provoke her fragility and be of nothing but no good to her. He questioned not the credibility of the doctors' warnings, but the one thing he doubted was the faith he had in the Healer Himself.
When will He descend His touch from Above, and wake her up from this curse?
Or rather... will He?
"You are all I have, Isabelle. Please don't go," he pleaded. He placed his hand on hers, warm and soft. She's thinned so much, he thought. I could almost feel her bones.
And as if a spark flew from the moment their skin got in contact, she took an unexpected deep breath, one so sudden and abrupt that it made him jump right out of his skin.
He stared at her, bewildered, not knowing what to do.
She exhaled. Inhaled. Exhaled. Inhaled.
She was grasping for air. Or so he thought. The serenity and peace which were written all over her face a moment ago, like a crystal vase falling off its mantel piece, broke out into chaos and shattered away into a chasm of nothingness.
The once emotionless machine was now beeping with wratch and fury. That was enough to push all his panic buttons.
Jacques let out an exasperated yell and scrambled out of the room in search for a doctor.
(To be continued)