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He's neck deep in paperwork when he gets the call. His mother's been pulled out of a ravine. She swerved and went over the guardrail, and they're airlifting her to the hospital. The prognosis is not good. Funny. The only thing he could think to say in the moment was to tell the medic on the other end of the line that he didn't realize she had him down as her emergency contact. He thanks the man vacantly, and places the receiver on the hook.
For one brief, guilty moment, he thinks it might be better if she doesn't pull through. If, despite their best efforts, she never wakes from that coma she's slipped into. Then he'd finally be free.
Freedom….. it's a frightening thought. As much as he craves the knowledge of a life without Sister Imperator pulling his strings about like a puppet, he doesn't know if he knows how to live like that. On his own. For himself. He's always been a means to an end. A copy.
He stands outside the door to her hospital room for a long moment. She's not conscious. There's no reason for him to waiver so, but he can't help but feel like she can see through to his secret desires, and that if he opens that door, she'll start screaming at him again. Reminding him that he needs her. That she made him. That he is nothing without her.
He's being stupid. Copia steels his nerves and pushes the door to the hospital room open, knowing that his fears are unfounded and yet, feeling them all the stronger for it.
It's remarkable how small she looks laying in that mass of tubing on those crisp white sheets, the bed an island of machinery in an ocean of nothingness. She looks so frail. So helpless. For the first time in his life, Copia thinks that Sister Imperator looks almost human. He does not sit at her bedside. It just seems wrong. Inappropriate, somehow, and he can't shake the feeling he'll be scolded for the transgression. Instead, he stands at her feet, holding onto the thick plastic edge of the bed and looking down.
Copia's eyes flick to the wall. To the outlet. To the machine that's breathing for her. It would be so easy. He could just…pull a plug. Flip a switch. Turn it off for just a moment, and he'd be a free man.
He lingers there a long moment, watching the rhythmic pumping of the machine, contemplating. Hoping. Wishing. Praying for the strength.
He can't do it. Copia curses softly, turning his back as he tears up for the first time since he'd gotten the call. He can't do it. He's nothing without her. She made him. Even if he did pluck up the courage to flip that switch, she's too much a part of him for him to ever be free of her. She's in his bones. His blood. The very coils of his DNA. Her perfect little copy.
He leaves the cheap bouquet and teddy bear on the table, not so much as looking at her as he walks out of the hospital room, a new weight on his shoulders. The burden of guilt. Of responsibility. Whatever happens from now on is his responsibility. The blood would be on his hands, for he was a coward who could not find the strength to put an end to things.