I was forced to sit in the sterile-looking waiting room... just.... well, waiting. What else could I do. It seemed like forever, though she had promised they'd be here before I could blink, but finally, Mr. and Mrs. Davis arrived, asking immediately where Quincy was.
This might just be the worst day of my life. Literately. If Quincy didn't make it.... No. I couldn't think like that. Quincy has to survive. I can't live without her.
I could only imagine how Mrs. Davis felt right now. She probably wasn't even thinking coherent thoughts, and she could barely speak right without choking on a sob. I've never seen her like this. She's always been the strongest of us, the mother figure to Quincy and me.
My mom left when I was six, and my father was left with me. He started drinking, and was rarely sober. I only stayed in my own bed maybe once a week. I was with Quincy most of the time. Quincy was how I made it through my day.
Mr. Davis spotted me and came over, gathering me in a hug. And I let loose. I couldn't hold back my tears any longer. He let me soak his shoulder gladly, and stroked my hair whispering that it would be okay, that it had to be okay.
Mr. Davis was like a father to me, since my own biological father couldn't care less. He's only told me that he loved me once. In the past nine years, he's only he told me he loved me once. So, with that being the case, it doesn't feel like he loves me at all. I'm pretty sure that he does, but he's just so drunk all the time that I'm never on his mind.
Mrs. Davis joined us, and we sat their, holding each other and crying. It could've been a century passed, but a doctor, or nurse- I couldn't tell, nor did I really care- came out, calling us into the hallway. We stood up simultaneously, walking hand in hand.
"She's in critical condition, but we're certain she'll survive the gun wound," She said, about to turn away.
"You say that like there's something more," I said before I could stop myself. My voice was rough and cold from crying so much.
She sighed. "There is, but we all need our rest right now. Come back tomorrow, and we'll tell you everything," the nurse said.
"This is our daughter. You can tell us now," John said. I've only heard him use this tone once, and that was a year ago when Quincy and I snuck out to go to a concert.
"Then you'd better follow me," she was reluctant. We followed her to an empty room. A row of chairs was lined up against the sterile white walls. "We believe Quincy has Luchemia. We're not positive on this information, though...." the nurse continued speaking, but I didn't hear what she was saying.
I was too distracted by the cancer part. If Quincy had... No. I couldn't even think it.