Don't Let Go: Day 2

Word Count: 12,004

Summary of Events:

Uncle Zikki was determined by the medical personnel to have sustained only minor injuries; in fact, he was released from hospital and able to chat with Tor the following day, where he explained that an issue with getting his seatbelts undone was what caused him to take so long getting out of his car. The following Saturday Tor was a bit sluggish because he'd been up late gaming the night before, but unable to sleep in because he had an appointment at the hair salon and family photos, which made him drowsy when it came time to watch Uncle Zikki in the Indianapolis 500. He was woken by Alexa screaming on the 145th lap, as Uncle Zikki had been in an accident, thus Tor, Alexa, and Opa waited anxiously for news, which came by phone to Opa…

Excerpt of the Day:

He looked at Alexa, whose face looked pale as her gaze fixed on Opa, whom Tor turned to look at again and saw was setting the phone back in its cradle. His face, to Tor’s dismay, looked even more ashen than Alexa’s.

Opa looked at them, looking on the cusp of tears — which was a look Tor hadn’t seen on Opa’s face since his mother had died seven years ago — but said nothing.

Striding toward them, Opa’s movements seemed leaden, as if ten-tonne weights had been attached to his legs. His posture seemed more heavily downcast than Tor had ever seen it — even when Great Oma had died — almost as if Opa had lost the will to live.

He dropped down into his chair heavily, like he was a doll some giant, invisible child had released from their hand, his jaw trembling so significantly Tor was surprised he didn’t hear Opa’s teeth clacking.

His breathing also seemed accelerated, but yet as if he was fighting tooth and nail to bring it back down to its normal resting pace.

Tor didn’t like what he was seeing. It couldn’t be merely bad if Opa was struggling with his emotions like this. It had to be horrible.

Opa wasn’t one to ever seem completely out of emotional control; he always seemed to have something of an irony fist on the reins of his emotions, keeping them in some degree of check, even as he did show them.

In this moment, though, his grip seemed to be slipping, which was not a good sign at all. Tor didn’t dare try to ask the questions his mind was coming up with and even desperately repeating over and over.

“Who called?” Alexa asked in a tremulous whisper.

“An official from Indianapolis,” Opa whispered back, his voice also trembling.

“Why?” Alexa asked, desperation tensing up her voice.

Opa’s jaw seemed to be trembling madly, and Tor was sure the ashes in the fireplace beneath the television would burst into flames at any moment owing to the intensity of Opa’s stare in their direction.

Finally an anguished cry rose from Opa’s throat and his hands shot to his face as if they were magnetised. Even when Great Oma had died — and her death was the most recent death of a family member that Tor could recall — Tor hadn’t heard Opa sob with the deep anguish that was filling his ears. Tor was at a loss for an adjective that conveyed something worse than horrific, but the anguish of Opa’s sobs suggested that things were even worse yet than Tor had thought before, which filled him with deep dread.

Along with the dread, was an intense desperation; Tor had to know what the caller had said. He didn’t want to believe the fear that was raging in him.

“What did they say?” Tor asked desperately, looking at Opa’s bent figure.

Opa’s shoulders trembled and his body shook. Tor was going to repeat himself more frantically, but Opa raised his head from his hands, moisture glistening on his face as he moved.

“The worst,” Opa whispered hoarsely. “Zikki is dead.”