Chapter 5: Resurrection | Clinical (V)

Amy lay back on the hospital bed, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, the sharp scent of disinfectant clinging to the air.

It was the kind of smell that clung to the back of your throat, impossible to ignore, much like the thoughts swirling in her head. She couldn't shake the dull ache that lingered in her chest and not from her wounds—the pain from it had faded long ago.

What lingered now was her entire situation pressing down on her like a heavy blanket she couldn't shake off.

It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

Her mind circled back to that moment, again and again. The gunshots, the rain, the cold bite of panic as death crept in at the edges of her vision. And then... Death's voice.

The words echoed in her head, hollow and impossible. The deal she had struck felt surreal, something she might have dismissed as a nightmare. But it was real, all too real, and the weight of it hung over her like a storm cloud, heavy and suffocating.

Create a vessel. Twelve days.

How am I supposed to do that?

The task felt impossible—where was she going to get the biomass for a body? How durable could she make it? Why did Death want a body?—chaotic thoughts swirled inside her head, and she sighed.

Just thinking about it won't change the facts.

Death had made their terms clear, and she'd do it. Somehow, she would figure it out. She had no choice.

I hate my life.

Her eyes moved to the clock on the wall.

Vicky was late.

And that was also the reason she was in the hospital now. If her sister had shown up on time, if things had gone according to plan, then she would have already left the street and... I wouldn't have been shot.

Amy closed her eyes, trying to push away the resentment creeping into her thoughts. It wasn't fair to blame Vicky entirely, but that didn't stop the thoughts from creeping in. If her sister had been there when she said she would, none of it would have happened, and she wouldn't be forced to break her own promise—wouldn't have felt the bullet tear through her body in the first place.

She sighed, opening her eyes again to glance at the clock. Vicky still wasn't here. Amy had half-expected her to fly in by now, full of apologies, offering some half-baked explanation. But she hadn't come.

A soft knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. It wasn't Vicky—she'd have already barged in. "Come in," Amy muttered, her voice flat, trying to stifle the disappointment.

The door opened, and a nurse stepped in, clipboard in hand. "Ms. Dallon," the nurse began, her tone polite, professional. "Your mother has been informed of your condition. She'll be here shortly."

Fuck.

Amy's stomach twisted. "My… mother?" The word came out barely above a whisper. Of course. Carol. Not Vicky.

The nurse nodded, oblivious to the way Amy's mood shifted. "Yes, she'll be here soon. You're stable, but the doctors recommend rest for a few days. Just as a precaution."

"Right," Amy muttered. She barely registered the nurse's words as her thoughts spiraled elsewhere—Carol. How was she supposed to face her mother after this?

The nurse gave her a polite smile before slipping out of the room, leaving Amy alone with the heavy silence once more.

Of course, Carol would come. Vicky had probably gotten tied up with something—some cape business, or perhaps school? She didn't know—and now, it was up to Carol to step in, just like always. Amy wasn't even angry anymore just… tired. Tired of being second priority, tired of being the one who had to wait, the one who had to endure.

The minutes dragged by, each one heavier than the last, until, at long last, the door creaked open. Carol Dallon entered the room, her heels clicking softly on the floor. Already, Amy felt the air thicken, tense and suffocating, and breath. Carol's expression was unreadable. She moved to the nearest chair—which was beside her bed—and sat down.

"I heard from the doctors," Carol began, her voice cool, though Amy thought—just for a second—there was a flicker of something behind it. Concern? No, she chided. I'm imagining things.

"You were shot?" Carol's words sounded clipped, like she was ticking off items on a list. Amy shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.

"I…" Amy faltered, unsure how to begin. She couldn't exactly explain the truth, not to Carol, not to anyone. Not about Death.

Carol's gaze stayed on her, unblinking, and it made Amy's skin prickle. "I was, but when I woke up..." she forced the words out, feeling the lie taste bitter on her tongue, "my wounds had already healed." Her jaw tightened. The lie felt too thin, too fragile.

Carol's eyes narrowed, the sharp edge of suspicion slicing through the air. "You're able to use your powers on yourself now?" The tension in her voice was unmistakable, cold and heavy. Amy could practically feel her mother's disapproval hanging in the room like a fog. She doesn't believe me, Amy thought, her chest tightening.

"No, I—" Amy stammered, her thoughts scrambling for something that made sense. "I- I don't think so," she managed, but even to her own ears, the words sounded flimsy, weak.

For a moment, the silence between them was unbearable, broken only by the steady, rhythmic beat of Amy's heart in her ears. Then Carol spoke again, her voice softer now, but no less tired. "Amy." She paused. "Are you alright?"

"I… am." The answer came out flat, automatic, but she wasn't sure it was true.

Carol stood, her movements precise as ever, her posture stiff. "I'll go back to the house to get your clothes," she said. "Once I return, we'll head straight home."

Amy's shoulders slumped a little as her mother turned to leave, but just as Carol reached the door, she stopped. Amy tensed, a knot forming in her stomach.

"Do you want anything?"

"What?" Amy blinked, caught off guard.

"To eat," Carol said, her voice still matter-of-fact but... why did she ask?"Consider something light."

Amy hesitated, only just realising that, yes, she was a bit hungry. "A... a salad would be nice."

"Alright." Carol nodded, her hand resting on the door handle. There was a pause. "And… I'm glad you're safe."

With that, Carol left, the door clicking softly behind her.

…

The car ride was thick with tension—the kind of silence that pressed down on Amy, making her skin crawl.

Her hands rested on the plastic container of salad Carol had given her. She stared out of the window, the city blurring into streaks of grey and light as they sped by. The familiar feeling of Carol's disapproval hung in the air between them, judgmental, though her adoptive mother hadn't spoken a word.

It was always like this. Always this suffocating pressure, so loud it didn't need to be said out loud.

Finally, Carol broke the silence, her voice sharp and precise, like a blade. "You could've been killed."

Amy flinched, her fingers curling around the edge of the container. "I know," she said quietly.

"You shouldn't have been out there alone," Carol continued.

"I wasn't supposed to be," Amy muttered, her voice barely more than a whisper. She stared at her hands, fingers knotted together. "Vicky was supposed to pick me up."

Carol's grip tightened on the steering wheel, her knuckles going white. "And she didn't," she said flatly, no surprise in her voice, just cold, hard judgement.

"No. She didn't," Amy whispered, her throat tightening as she said it, the words feeling heavy in her chest.

There was a pause, thick and unbearable. Carol's eyes flicked towards Amy for just a second, the silence between them stretching taut, before returning to the road ahead.

"You should've called someone else," Carol said. "You shouldn't have waited around for her. You," she sighed. "You could've called me."

You wouldn't have answered anyways, Amy bit back the words from escaping her lips.

"I didn't know it would take so long," Amy said, her voice barely steady. She knew, deep down, that her mother was right—she should have done something differently. But in that moment, she'd trusted Vicky. Trusted her sister to show up, like she always had before. She never expected to be left so... vulnerable.

Carol's lips thinned, a harsh line drawn across her face. "You can't afford to make mistakes like this, Amy. Not with who you are. Not with your powers. You can't just... wait around for your sister to get her act together."

Amy clenched her fists in her lap, her knuckles white as she stared down at them. "I... I didn't mean for this to happen."

"No one ever does," Carol said sharply, the words cutting through the air. "But it did. And now you're lucky to be sitting here at all."

The impact of Carol's words hit like a punch to the gut. Amy's hands trembled—she wished they'd stop. Please.

"It wasn't my fault," she said softly, her voice shaking. "I didn't ask for this."

The silence that followed was worse than Carol's scolding. The weight of her mother's unspoken disapproval sat between them, suffocating.

The rest of the drive passed in that unbearable quiet, the tension pressing in on Amy from every side. She wanted to scream—to shout that it wasn't her fault, that it wasn't fair, that- that- she should've been worried about her. Her chest tightened painfully, but she desperately kept her eyes glued to the blur of the outside world, trying her best to hide the tears welling up.

When they finally pulled into the driveway, the engine went quiet with a heavy click, but Carol didn't move. Her hands remained around the wheel with her head a bit low.

The silence was thick and expectant.

"You need to be smarter, Amy," Carol said, her voice low. "You can't count on anyone but yourself. Not even Vicky."

Amy swallowed hard, the words cutting deeper than she wanted to admit. She nodded, though her throat felt tight, like it might close entirely if she spoke. Without another word, she opened the car door, stepping out into the cool night air. It wrapped around her like a cold reminder of the emptiness she felt.

Behind her, the car door shut with a hollow thud, echoing in the quiet of the driveway.

For a brief, painful moment, Amy found herself wishing she had died back there in the rainy night.