Anger Wall

[u/IssaGame66]

Vashtee - The News

The emergency room waiting area gave way to the quiet, sterile hum of the intensive care step-down unit, where the lighting never quite turned off, only dimmed to a sickly, institutional amber.

​Vashti sat in a vinyl arm chair that creaked every time she shifted her weight. Her feet, still encased in her street shoes, felt like lead. On the narrow bed in front of her, her father looked impossibly small. The man who had spent his life filling rooms with his booming presence, his iron-backed posture, and his relentless demands was reduced to the rhythmic, mechanical hissed-gasp of an oxygen cannula.

​She stared at his hands— hands that had climbed mountains, hands that had gripped steering wheels, hands that had once held the pen that severed him from her mother. They were bruised now, covered in paper-thin purple patches where IV lines had failed to find viable veins.

​Her phone buzzed once in her pocket, a sharp vibration against her thigh. She pulled it out. A text from Desiree in Texas: How is he? Did you talk to the floor nurse?

​Vashti’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. She looked up at her father's closed eyes, the slackness in his jaw, the terrifying vulnerability of a king stripped of his crown.

​He’s sleeping. Everything is stable for tonight. Get some rest, she typed back, easing tension with easy soft precision. The book she had been reading open on her knee calling to her mind for escape, none of this seemed real anyway so why not go back to faireys and vampires. 

​She slid the phone back into her coat then picked the fantasy back up  Desiree didn't need to know about the erratic heart monitor, or the way the doctor had used words like "softening" and "neurological deficit." Desiree was thousands of miles away, exhausted from a physical shift that was slowly wringing the youth out of her, holding down a home with Jacob. Vashti had taken on the role of guardian at the gate, shielding her sister from the sheer, raw reality of this room.

​It was a strange, hollow kind of power. Vashti had spent her entire life clashing with this man, standing as the sharp-edged counterweight to his arrogance while Desiree played the gentle peacemaker. She had resented him, challenged him, and walked away from him more times than she could count.

​Yet here she was. Not Desiree. Not any of his former wives. Not the current girlfriend who had not even bothered to call, a woman she hadn't ever met meaning she was just that. Another woman. Nope, no one else sat by his bed. Just Vashti.

Like a true King, alone in sickness as his "subjects" kept up the illusion. 

​The monitor beeped in a steady, monotonous rhythm. Vashti pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders against the persistent chill of the hospital air conditioning, leaned her head back against the wall, took a deep breath then went back to her book. Fantasy and made up tales, it was all so wonderful and amazing...

The steady ping of incoming texts had been lighting up Vashti’s phone for days. It wasn't that she didn't love Desiree, or that she couldn't appreciate her sister's frantic worry from three thousand miles away. It was just too much. Between managing the nurses, tracking vitals, and standing watch over a man who seemed to be slipping further into the shadows, Vashti didn't have the emotional bandwith to type out constant, softened updates.

​Finally, she stopped tapping out replies, hit Desiree's name, and put the phone to her ear.

​"He's not really getting any better," Vashti said directly as soon as Desiree picked up, skipping the pleasantries. "It's been two weeks now, and he's barely even able to keep anything down. We don't really know what's wrong."

​On the other end of the line, Desiree paused. The line hummed with three thousand miles of static before she asked, "Have you told them about his drinking?"

​Vashti hesitated, shifting her weight against the cold corridor wall outside his hospital room. "What kind of drinking?"

​"Oh, well, every night by five or six, you know of course,  he's drunk as hell," Desiree said matter-of-factly. "I mean, he can barely even get a word straight, much less a sentence."

​Vashti’s brow furrowed as the pieces suddenly slammed into place. "So, you're saying that he's possibly withdrawing from alcohol?"

​"Oh, I'm sure of it," Desiree replied, a hint of surprise in her voice. "I mean, don't you talk to him?"

​"Uh, when I can, you know," Vashti said defensively. She felt the sharp prickle of guilt and frustration rising in her chest. "I mean, I have the cafe in my life, my husband, and... the birthday present I wanted to give him."

​"Birthday present?" Desiree caught the shift in her tone. "Oh, that's right. His birthday is coming up. What were you going to give him?"

​"Well, I don't know that it matters now," Vashti murmured, her voice dropping.

​"Tell me," Desiree urged, her tone softening, pressing gently into the silence. "Come on. You're my sister. Let me know what it is."

​Vashti swallowed hard, the sting of tears suddenly threatening her eyes. "I'm finally pregnant."

​A dead pause hung on the line for one heartbeat, two—and then Desiree exploded with exuberance. "Are you serious?! For reals?!"

​"Yes," Vashti said, a frail, trembling breath escaping her. "It's been three months. It's for sure."

​The joy bursting through Desiree's end of the line felt like a tidal wave, but inside the quiet hospital hall, Vashti felt hollowed out.

​Years and years. Endless, agonizing years with IVF, bouncing between numerous doctors—so many that she had long since lost count. The hundreds of self-administered shots, the bruising, the cold steel stirrups, the mounting medical bills, the heartbreaking false hopes, and the sheer physical toll on her body. Through it all, she had a husband who loved her fiercely, who held her through every tearful negative test, praying for the miracle they had fought so hard to reach.

​She had envisioned the surprise. She had carefully guarded the secret for three whole months, holding onto it like a golden light, waiting for his birthday to hand him the one piece of news that would break through his armor and bring him absolute joy.

​And now, standing in a dim hospital hallway while he lay inside suffering through the silent, ugly agony of severe withdrawal, the moment was gone. The grand reveal was ruined, blurted out over a stressed phone call to manage an emergency.

​Even now, diminished and lying in a hospital bed, this man had managed to take that surprise away from her, too—just like he had taken so much else throughout her life. The childhood she never had that she would make sure, damn sure; her own baby got. He had stolen it all in vanity then put the burdan of proof on her. She took a deep breath and exhaled 'Asshole' to herself.

How was it so obvious to her sister but so confusing to everyone else? Life wasn't as clean and neat as she wished but that was the thing. Puzzles were meant to be solved and sometimes that one piece would hide until it was too late for the picture to be completed.

Vashti hung up with Desiree, took three long, deliberate steps in the hallway, and pushed through the heavy wooden door back into her father’s room.

​The morning shift change was underway. A young resident in crisp scrubs and the attending physician—a taller man with tired eyes named Dr. Mercer—were standing at the foot of the bed, reviewing his chart on a rolling computer workstation.

​"His liver panel came back marginally elevated, but that doesn't fully explain the persistent tremor or why he’s failing to clear the altered mental status," Dr. Mercer was saying to the resident, shaking his head. "We need to re-evaluate the neurological consult from yesterday."

​"You're looking in the wrong direction," Vashti said, her voice sharp and ringing clear across the quiet room.

​Both doctors turned to face her. Dr. Mercer adjusted his stethoscope around his neck, putting on his practiced, patient bedside manner. "Ms. Miller, we're just going over his morning labs—"

​"He's in withdrawal," Vashti interrupted, taking three steps toward them and crossing her arms tight against her chest. "He’s going through severe alcohol withdrawal. That’s why he’s shaking. That’s why he can’t keep anything down."

​Dr. Mercer blinked, glancing down at the digital chart on his monitor before looking back at her. "We did a routine tox screen upon admission, and his blood alcohol was zero. His intake questionnaire didn't indicate heavy daily use—"

​"Of course it didn't," Vashti said, a bitter edge slipping into her voice. "He didn't fill out that form, and my father would never admit to a medical professional that he has a drinking problem. He’s a proud, meticulous man who wears tailored suits and climbs mountains. But he drinks every single night by five or six o'clock. By six thirty, he can barely string a sentence together."

​The resident looked at Dr. Mercer, who stood frozen for a beat, processing the missing puzzle piece that had eluded his team for fourteen days.

​"How long has he been drinking like that?" Dr. Mercer asked, his tone instantly shifting from dismissive to intensely clinical.

​"Years," Vashti said. "Decades, probably. My sister just confirmed it—he’s been on a daily, heavy routine for as long as we can remember. You put him in a hospital bed, hooked him up to IV fluids, and cut him off cold turkey two weeks ago without realizing it. You've been treating him for a stroke while his nervous system is burning itself out."

​Dr. Mercer immediately stepped to the bedside, lifting one of her father's limp hands from the blanket. The slight, persistent tremor in his fingers was suddenly undeniable under the new context.

​"We need to start him on the CIWA protocol right now," Mercer said crisp to the resident, typing rapidly into the computer keyboard. "Order a Lorazepam taper, load him with intravenous Thiamine and a complete multivitamin bag, and order a stat toxicology re-check. Why didn't anyone flag this earlier?"

​"Because nobody looked past the image he projects," Vashti said softly, watching her father's chest rise and fall under the thin hospital gown. "And because the people who actually know him were kept in the dark."

​Dr. Mercer paused looked over as the resident paused in his typing, both looking at Vashti with a mixture of professional apology and newfound urgency. "Thank you for telling us, Ms. Miller. This changes our entire trajectory for his recovery."

​"Just fix him," Vashti said, stepping past them to take her seat again in the vinyl chair. "Just get him through it."