And The Silver Spoon
Your next set of motions are automatic. You try in vain to shake the mind-numbing fear of losing Theo off, but you can't.
You take him into the living room bridal style. You drape him across the sofa, his head lolling to the side almost lifelessly.
With each movement, you feel Mary's breath down your neck.
Asking what you did to her son. How you could let this happen.
You mutter panicked answers under your breath like a madman as you hastily run a first aid kit over to Theo like you're at his bedside.
You wrap gauze around a gushing arm. You apply pressure to his chest and leg, also gushing. It's the most blood other than your own that you've ever seen in your life.
Decision after decision, you think, and each one more wrong than the one before.
You think of all the times Theo unknowingly came to you about this. Asked you about The Bolt, pestered you for stories, prodded you for opinions on enhanced individuals to know how you'd take it when he DID decide to tell you.
To know if you'd accept him.
Even though you might be the only person on Earth who would know HOW to accept him if you'd just listened.
You think of all the shit you said in return. How much you thought you were protecting him, when really you were just protecting yourself from getting wrapped up in the memories of your lost love: vigilanteism.
You think of how Theo probably got these powers from you genetically. That no matter who raised him, he would always end up like his old man. It was genetic.
So caught up in thought, you snap back into reality and take into account that Theo hasn't spoken in a long while.
In fact, in all your wrapping and bandaging, Theo hadn't moved or uttered a word.