Two days later, nothing much is different. The doctors come around, check on his progress, note that he’s not really making any, and leave. Nurses and nursing assistants come around to check on his vitals and write down what the printouts from all the beeping monitors say. Brie stays with me until she gets bored and then wanders around the hallways looking for something to do. But I stay put. I don’t really know what else to do. I don’t want to go home. It’s still a crime scene. And I’m afraid of being there. I can’t go to my mom’s house. It’s too far and too sad. So, instead, I park myself in his room and wait. And wait. And then I wait some more.

A detective comes to speak to me about what happened with Blake. He listens, scribbles notes down in his little book, then comes back later that day with more questions. The neighbors corroborate my story. So far, they are not interested in pressing charges. But they will be doing more investigating.

“You can go back home,” he says when he’s about to leave. “It’s no longer an active crime scene.”

I nod as if any of that makes sense. My home - an active crime scene. I don’t want to go back, so Brie goes alone. She comes back with my laptop, a notebook, and some clothes. I look through the stuff she had brought. There’s a pair of jeans, but that seems to be too ambitious of an undertaking. Luckily, there are also two pairs of yoga pants and some loose-fitting t-shirts and a hoodie. Perfect. I won’t need anything else. Except maybe some makeup so I don’t look like I’m half-dead. That’s a bad joke to make in a hospital. I know that. So, I keep it to myself.

When Brie goes out to the movies, I sit down next to Aiden and open my laptop. I need to write. When I have no energy at all, I listen to audiobooks to escape. When I have some energy, but not enough to sustain myself entirely, I read to escape. But right now, I feel a ball forming in the pit of my stomach. It’s an energy that needs to be expelled, one way or another. The best way to get rid of it is to write. I open a blank document and start typing. It starts with an emotion. I describe how much I hate Blake and how much I love Aiden. But these words quickly morph into a story. I type until my fingers start to ache and my wrists develop a dull shooting pain going back to my elbows. I’ve always been susceptible to carpal tunnel, but typically it takes longer than just a few thousand words for it to feel this bad.

I shake my head as I close my laptop. It’s Blake’s fault. Yet another thing that he has caused. Fuck him!

“Excuse me,” an unfamiliar female voice says. I look up and see a woman with dark hair, which is cut bluntly at the shoulders. She has high cheekbones and tired eyes. I’ve never met her before, but the resemblance is uncanny.

“Oh, Aiden.” She runs over and grabs his hand. I get out of my chair to make room. Tears run down her cheeks as she kisses his hand over and over again. Suddenly, I start to feel queasy again. The nausea is far from gone, even though the medication is helping. But anytime I feel at all upset, or over-stimulated, I start to feel nauseated again. I move over to the sofa and sit down.

“I’m so sorry,” she mumbles, half looking over at me, but mostly touching Aiden as if she’s making sure that he’s real.

It takes her a few minutes to fully gather herself. When she finally does, she looks over at me. Her cheeks are still wet and her lips are puffy from the avalanche of tears.

“Hi, I’m Ellie,” I whisper, extending my hand. She pulls me close to her, giving me a big warm hug. I exhale deeply, letting myself relax into her.

“Hi, sweetie,” she says. “I’m Arlene Black, Aiden’s mother.”

The last bit isn’t necessary. Anyone who knows Aiden would know that she’s his mother immediately. They have the same far-off stare, the same large eyes, and chiseled jaw. That’s not to imply that she is at all manly. No, she’s actually quite feminine.

“I’m so sorry that we have to meet under these circumstances,” she says, sitting down next to me. I don’t know what I was expecting, but Arlene Black is quite ordinary. She’s average weight and height and she’s dressed in a casual pair of black pants, boots, and a white blouse. I try to remember what Aiden said she did for a living, but nothing comes to mind.

“Did you talk to the doctors, Mrs. Black?” I ask.

“Oh, please, call me Arlene,” she says. “Yes, I did. Do you think they know what they’re doing?”

I shrug. “I have no idea.”

“I’m going to look into this a little more once I get a hold of myself a bit. I just found out.”

“I’m so sorry I didn’t call you. It’s just that…I didn’t know any of your information.”

The truth is that it hadn’t really occurred to me to call her. Aiden mentioned her only once to me. But I also would have no clue as to how to go about trying to find her. I was too wrapped up in my own grief to give calling his relatives and letting them know about this any thought.

“The police reached out to me. They said that Blake attacked him.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve always had a bad feeling about him. Even when they were first getting friendly at Yale,” Arlene says, shaking her head.

I doubt that it was that obvious, but we all have to say things to ourselves to make us feel better.

“He attacked you as well?”

I nod. That word, attacked, sends shivers through my body. Suddenly, a flashback. I see Blake’s face before me. I try to breathe but choke up.

“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to…” her voice trails off as she hands me a cup of water. As soon as an ice cube touches the tip of my tongue, the memory of Blake vanishes and I find myself back in the hospital room.

“No, I’m sorry. It’s all very…fresh, still.”

She nods and sits back down next to Aiden. I make myself comfortable next to her. Neither of us speak for some time. The silence is comforting actually. I let my thoughts drift and, for a while, I hear nothing but the beeping of the machines.

“So, how did you two meet?”