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These halls are always cold and sterile when she comes. The scent of antiseptic and decay linger long after the sick or the dead have been whisked away, buried or burned. The echo of her footsteps haunts well after she leaves each time, knowing that it could be the last time she ever sets foot here. Not because she doesn’t want to, but because the reason why may no longer apply. Yet, she remains hopeful that recovery is on the horizon despite the odds against them.
They tell her she’s brave, that this rollercoaster she didn’t sign up for, the one that rocks her until her bones ache and tears pour from her eyes from the jagged wind, would have many others unable to withstand the whiplash. But she doesn’t see it like this. She has no choice.
Not like the others.
Scrubs and ivory lab coats pass her by as she makes her trek, some faces friendly, others looking directly through her. She doesn’t begrudge them or their position. She knows what they have to put up with, she knows they try their best. She knows they would do more if they could. She too, wishes she could do more.
The desk she approaches at the end of the bright, white-washed hallway is littered with files, phones, and a few sparsely filled bouquets of flowers. It seems to be an attempt to brighten an otherwise dreary and desolate place of existence. She often wonders if the décor is for the staff or the patients. Perhaps both. She finds no comfort in these floral arrangements. They mean nothing to her now.
A wrinkled face peers up from an open file. The smile that crosses thin pink lips is tired, but there is warmth there, somewhere. “Hello, Ms. Wallace.”
“Good afternoon, Beeta,” Marlene replies. She returns the smile with that of her own, reaching for the pen chained to a clipboard upon the counter. “How’s dad today?”
It is commonplace to find a grimace in response to the question. Today, she is surprised to find something else. “He’s somewhat lucid, actually.”
Her smile widens, signing in her name quickly before looking back at the Beeta. “That’s great news.”
There is a pause. It is heavy, weighted like lead. “It’s certainly a good time to see him, now.”
Marlene frowns, her large, brown eyes falling to slits. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Gray strands of hair are tucked deliberately behind Beeta’s ear. It is a gesture Marlene recognizes all too well. Someone close to her always does the same when holding onto uncomfortable information. “He just finished lunch. Best time for a visit.”
Marlene moves her mouth to press her further, but Beeta is saved by the ring of the phone.
“Shinra Wellness facility,” Beeta smiles politely, but dismissively. The conversation is done.
A scream pierces through the halls as she makes her way toward her destination. No one seems alarmed by the sudden outburst, as if it were no more than the backup of an engine on the highway. Eyes of shuffling residents fall to her as she passes them by, some with a look of vacancy while others stare as if she were someone else entirely. She can’t imagine what it’s like to be trapped as they are; trapped within walls not of stone or mortar, but of mental bricks they had no hand in laying and without the tools to take them down. She can’t imagine living this kind of life at all, and she prays to Gaia she never has to.
But he’s different. He will make it through.
Room 112 comes into view and a thick foreboding falls before her like a fog, dense and suffocating. They told her it would get easier with time. It never has. It never will. She presses on still. She has to see him.
She’s the only one that still does.
The door is open when she enters, and Marlene finds him sitting by the opened, yet barred, window. The day outside is sunny and chipper, rays of light reflecting against aged, brown skin.
Visibly, he is a shell of the man he once was. Much of the muscle accumulated during his time on the field has since melted away within these four walls. Skin hangs loose beneath his clothing, and while his frame is naturally large in stature, the protrusion of bone is evident beneath the fabric. His metal arm remains functional for menial tasks, but Big Berta has long ago been deactivated.
As evidenced by the multiple patches on the walls, he does enough damage without it.
Visitations are always hit or miss. More times than not, there is a fire, an anger burning in his eyes like pools of molten lava ready to spill over and scorch the Planet. With the veil of betrayal draped over his person, he often lashes out at anyone who visits him, believing to be held captive by Shinra cronies and the ones he once called friends have turned him over to the dark side. He often believes it is still the time of Meteor, the time of him, when they were all fighting for the life of the rock they inhabited. His rage knew no bounds, and sedation became a normal occurrence.
Until they all just stopped coming.
Other times he would live deep within the past, when his wife Myrna and Dyne and others within his village of Corel were living and breathing. He would see them clearly, imprinting their consciousness onto anyone else whether patients or staff. When the illusion dissolved, the terror would begin.
He rarely ever sees Marlene as she truly is, and it breaks her piece by piece each and every time.
When she comes to his side this time, looking upon his weathered face, she does not find bubbling anger. She does not find the cloud of consistent confusion. Today she finds clarity.
She also finds fear.
“Hi daddy.”
Barret’s gaze remains transfixed outside, staring out through the window and into the blaring light of the sun. “How old are you now, Marlene?”
Wings of hope take flight. He knows who she was without any gentle reminders. “I’m 18.”
“A grown up.”
“I don’t feel grown up.”
“You won’t ever be a grown up to me.”
Marlene smiles even as her heart constricts. She drags a chair over to sit beside him in his wheelchair. It looks much too big for him now.
“How is everybody?”
Conversations are confusing sometimes. She isn’t certain who he is referring to or what timeline he believed himself to be occupying. But given his present lucidity, she feels fairly confident in the answer. “Things are pretty boring, really. Vincent is still elusive, but he visits on holidays. Denzel is still working under Cid. They’re working on a new airship--Denzel can’t really seem to talk about anything else. Shera is really patient with those guys.”
A small nod of acknowledgment encourages her to continue. “I start classes at Edgeway Academy this fall. I’m not sure about a major, but Reeve says I don’t have to decide right away. I can just...take some classes I’m interested in and then decide a bit later. But I’m really leaning toward an art major.”
“You always did like making them portraits.”
Her eyes casually drift to the watercolor painting at his bedside. It is a sideways profile of her father with broad strokes and bold colors. His expression is proud and serious, a vision she holds onto for dear life. A stark, visual contrast to who he is now.
Silence befalls them, and she wonders if this is when the tide will turn. While he normally sits within a simmering rage ready to explode, the undercurrent of tranquility remains steady.
“This ain’t your fault,” he says suddenly. “I hope you know that.”
She blinks a few times, her mind catching up with the proclamation. “What’s not my fault?”
“This. Where I am, what happened to me. What’s happening to me.”
Mining coal, countless battles, trauma after trauma--a number of things could have ultimately been responsible. But somehow, she also found a way to turn the finger upon herself.
Rationally, she knows he’s right. But she also knows that emotions, that guilt, is a funny thing. She knows she’s spent countless nights blaming herself, as if she had the power to do more to stop the disease, as if she had a better means to personally care for him and not acquiesce to his placement in a soulless place like this. She knows she did her best, but perhaps her best just wasn’t good enough.
“I know,” she tells him.
“You don’t. You think you do, but you don’t. And you gonna carry that weight no matter what I tell ya. I know I did.”
It takes great effort for him now to move when fury is not feeding his blood. His fleshed hand lifts and reaches out toward her. She catches it and holds it before he loses the strength to find her. He doesn’t look away from the window. “You ain’t got yourself a boyfriend yet, do you?”
Marlene snorts. “No, daddy. I told you I’m not going to until you get out of here and you’re better. You have to make sure he’s up to snuff, right?”
She feels a tremble between her hands. Part of her mind writes it off as a cold chill delivered by the air conditioning vent above them. The lack of meat on his bones is surely contributing to the violent shift in his body temperature, “It must be cold in here. I’m going to get you a blanket.”
Barret is much faster than she anticipates. His hand clamps down upon hers before she can move, and when she looks up at his face, her heart shatters.
There is something about his anger, no matter how volatile, that is comforting to Marlene when expressed. But it’s the sadness that aches her, the tears that completely break her. And like a stone statute, she’s still, peering into the bleakness of his expression, watching the streaks make their mark down his cheeks.
“I ain’t gettin’ out of here, Marlene. You know it.”
The denial seeps its way in. She shakes her head over and over even as the grip tightens as much as his fragile fingers will allow. “No, no. No, you can get better. You can heal. You can--”
“I can’t, baby girl. This is the first time I can really see things, clearly. And…” He let her go only to raise his struggling hand to her face, to wipe away the sadness from beneath her drowning eyes, “I feel myself running out of time.”
Words she wishes to speak are locked deep and tight within her throat. She can’t move.
She didn’t prepare for this.
A sad smile touches his mouth, and for a moment she’s reminded of the man he was before life stole away his sensibilities. “I summoned all I had to be able to see you again, with my eyes undisturbed by my inner demons.”
“Daddy…”
“I want you to tell them I don’t blame them either.” She knows who he means, He doesn’t have to say their names. “Sometimes, I couldn’t handle me on the best of days,” a twinkle of whimsy shines through despite the sorrow leaking from each word he speaks.
“But dad--”
“I want you to go now.”
“Dad, please--”
“I need you to remember me with my mind clear and not broken, you understand?”
The grip she holds on his arm must be uncomfortably firm for him, but she can’t will herself to let go. “I’m not ready.”
“You got to be. You’ve always gotta be ready. For anything. For everything.”
It’s then that their eyes lock, and she sees the depth of his desperation. She sees the agony and the isolation he’s trapped in, just like all the others within such a deplorable atmosphere. She sees the suffering he faces every moment of each day he continues living through his recurring nightmares. She sees him begging her, to please…
Let me go.
In an instant, the fog rolls in. The hand at her cheek begins to fall away, propped up solely by the grip she continues to hold onto.
Before he can demand it, she lets him go.
And three days later, he’s gone.