Silence has its spectrum. One end is fragile, paper-thin, almost decrepit nowadays - smooth as a lonely breeze in the middle of an ocean - ready to be snapped up in a moment. The other is the aftermath of a dead baby - sticky, pervasive - a silence which fattens itself in every corner, under every piece of existence and sucks it dry.
Pyotr, his left cheek ironed onto the table, drowses on the first end. His mother and Derek suffocate in the second - waiting for the ambulance.
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Derek attempts occasional, feeble resistance into the silence. His mouth opens towards Pyotr's mother, but then admits defeat to the futility almost immediately - his chin sinking back to his neck. Please let a knock come, a sound - any sound.
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Pyotr's head floats in a gentle box, rocking in hyper-delicate unconsciousness. His stomach roars are suppressed by this - some part of him clings to appalling, brittle sleep. A twitch flickers on him - the pain not dormant, but cocked, ready. Just the most meagre of a sound needed to trigger it again.
Keep this silence, let it remain for good - don't sweep it away.
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It comes - disintegrates both silences. A cocktail of relief and anguish spew into the room. The anguish slaps the relief to the ground with Pyotr's waking:
'BBBRRROOOOOAAAAGGGHHHHH!'
The sound spirals out of Pyotr as he thuds to the floor.
His mother waves an urgent hand to the knocking door - eyes imploring Derek. Their first communication. He goes. She kneels to Pyotr. Cups his head. Tears come.
Again.
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'Fuck me! Not a fucking narcoman - I hope.'
'You get his legs - I'll get the arms. Can't be pissing bothered with the stretcher. Not on these stairs.'
'Don't smoke in here please gentlemen. Be careful with my son.'
'Don't you worry old dear. This cig won't bother him any. It's special medical issue, isn't it Mickey?'
'Aye missus - nothing to worry yourself about. We'll race him to the hospital in no time.'
'Okay young man.'
'So - you two folks coming with us then?'
Derek and Pyotr's mother manage communication number two and agree to go.
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Each tenderless step down the stairwell, every chronic bump in the road, all the swerving malignant corners stab at Pyotr. His innards feel more blasted, crushed, ragged.
As the 'gentlemen' wheel out Pyotr and into the hospital he speaks his last words to Derek.
'Don't leave me. Please don't leave me. This is when I need you most - right now. Don't leave please.'
'I'm right here. Not going anywhere - anything for you.'
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Pyotr's eyes close upwards into white. Final white.
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