ANGEL OF THE BRONX
He could barely breath. The very air coming in an out of his lungs hurt as it passed his throat back and forth. He resisted the urge to cough, because it hurt. His entire body began caving in on itself in a fight for dominance. His stomach twitched at the effort of bending down to smother the cough on himself. His arms twitched as they tried to hold the rest of him together. His throat constricted, vainly trying to help his stomach, and he could barely breath. There were sounds coming from upstairs now. Sounds he hadn't noticed before, the taps of footsteps and the hum of pipes. One particularly loud footstep sounded just above him and he jerked involuntarily. His throat opened as air forced itself out in an attempt to scream but all that came out was a haggard cough. Murphy turned over on his side, hacking as he placed a hand on the cement wall to steady himself. He felt so cold. The icy, stone-like walls of the room shot spikes of cold over every inch of his body, especially now in nothing but his boxers. Huddling in on himself, Murphy tried again to get a handle on his coughing. His stomach muscles twitched involuntarily as he shuddered. Time was somewhat irrelevant to him at this point, but as Murphy closed his eyes he let his misery guide his thoughts once more to his brother. Had Connor truly gone through all of this? he wondered privately to himself, subconsciously adding the note he himself would have to had to been unconscious for a majority of Connor's torture. It seemed almost impossible that he would not have heard the continuous torments of his twin, or felt them in the way the pair had shared everything. Perhaps the man had killed Connor faster then he was killing Murphy. Tears sprung, unbidden in Murphy's eyes. He blinked rapidly, trying to erase them for the sake of what little macho pride he had. He was tired. He was tired and cold, sick and alone. The tears fell, some sliding past his lips where he could taste there salty bitterness. He had never cared if life or the world was fair since he knew it wasn't. Now, though, in the dark recess of his mind being slowly brought to light in the darkness of his surroundings, he felt the anger he had harbored for years at this injustice. Anger at his fate, both here and as a Saint. Anger at Rocco for dying. Anger at his father for pushing the bounds too far. Anger at God for not saving him and letting the man make a mockery of his faith. Anger at Connor for dying sooner while he was forced to linger. Murphy opened his eyes. For the first time in his life, he was alone. Jeremy didn't like it. When he had arrived at the hospital for the second time in so many days and found Anna quietly conversing with Connor, he felt something close to anger. Something he hadn't felt in a long, long time. It didn't help that the pair fell silent as he raised his hand to knock against the door frame. Connor's face dropped into an expression of hostile dominance. His blue eyes stared into Jeremy's brown ones, daring him to challenge it. Jeremy sneered back in response, his mind going to a darker place for the moment. That was until Anna turned around and smiled brightly at him. "Hey, Jeremy," she said, as cheerfully as was possible for her, "Sorry to call your services in again." "Not a problem," responded Jeremy, "Accidents happen." He glanced over at Connor fixing the Irishman with a meaningful glare. Connor stiffened, his hands drawing into clear fist even beneath the thin hospital blanket. Unconsciously, Jeremy stepped back, aware that if the other man wasn't in the hospital bed he himself would have been. Anna frowned, sensing the hostility in the room. Following Jeremy's line of sight, she saw the fist beneath the blanket. Looking up at Connor, she fixed him with her own glare. "Enough," she said coldly, "Jeremy is trying to help you, too." "I'm sure he is," responded Connor. "Connor," Anna's tone was dead serious, "If you want me to trust you, you have to trust me first. If you trust me, trust Jeremy." Connor glanced at Anna, his blue eyes studying her for a long moment. The newly familiar anger flaired in Jeremy's chest. Then, to his surprise, the Irishman nodded. Looking up at him, Jeremy saw the dominance fall back to guarded familiarity. Internally, Jeremy sighed. Progress was becoming interesting. A.N.: Yeah, I left this on a weird note. Sorry. But it'll make more sense later on.
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