Page 23 of Uprising

I try to take small breaths but even those aren’t getting in.

Roman is gone. Roman is dead. I have to save Lara.

“Please sit for the sermon.” The bishop says pointing across to the two chairs at the side clearly placed for us.

Darius leads me to them. I sink down feeling like my legs are collapsing. I just have to hold on, I just have to keep this up a little bit longer.

But as the bishop starts droning on, as he reads some part of the bible out, I don’t think I can. My hands move, I don’t mean too, I don’t even register it but they’re there at my throat. Clutching.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t fucking breathe.

My head goes dizzy. It feels like I’m actually having a heart attack and then I’m falling, off the chair, and those tiles that have laid here for hundreds of years are coming up so fast and I know when my face collides with them that it’s going to hurt.

It’s really going to hurt.

Rose

“There’s nothing medically wrong.” The doctor says, looking from the papers to me as I’m laid out on the gurney, still in my wedding dress, though someone was kind enough to remove my killer heels.

“What do you mean nothing wrong?” Darius snarls. “She collapsed. You don’t just collapse.”

The doctor sighs looking at the sheet again. “I’ve run her stats, I’ve checked her heart, her lungs, everything is normal.”

“If it’s normal then why the fuck was she faceplanting in the middle of our wedding?” Darius says.

I shut my eyes, relieved for once that he’s taking his anger out on someone other than me.

I can feel the weight of his ring, it’s tight around my finger like he intentionally got it made a little too small so I’d constantly feel the reminder of it.

We’re still married. That still happened.

I didn’t pass out or whatever it was in a timely manner enough to stop it. All I’ve done is cause more drama, more trouble for myself. But that’s typical of me isn’t it? I’ve never been able to act in anyway that’s not resulted in it backfiring on myself.

“I can’t give you an explanation Mr. Blumenfeld because medically speaking there isn’t one.”

“What does that mean?” My father asks. He’s been stood in the room, in the corner, observing the way he always does, waiting for his moment to strike and clearly he’s decided this is it.

The doctor looks across at me. “Are you stressed right now Ms. Capulet?”

“Wwhat?” I stammer.

“It’s Blumenfeld.” Darius says. “She’s taken my name now we’re married.”

The doctor inclines his head. “Mrs Blumenfeld.” He corrects himself and it’s so hard not to turn my face up at that. “Are you under any undue stress, is there any situation in your life that is making you feel like you’re losing control?”

I gulp looking at Darius. He’s stood right there. The living, breathing epitome of everything the doctor just described.

“Of course she’s stressed.” My mother says quickly. “She’s a bride on her wedding day. She’s got half the world’s press here, watching her every move, how could she not be stressed?”

“Are you saying she’s had some sort of panic attack?” My father sneers.

“Not exactly.” The doctor replies. “Stress does things to the body, it’s more than likely that your fiancée suffered some sort of cardiac event but we cannot see it on the charts because now that it’s passed there’s no spikes, no changes to her heartrate.”

“You mean she had a heart attack?” Darius says.

“No. We can see if that was the case and that’s not what happened.”

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