The room was cold. Not physically—there was warmth in the air, in the soft hum of electronics, in the subtle glow of wall-mounted lights—but cold in the way a hospital felt after bad news. The kind of cold that curled around the bones and didn't let go.
Aaron hadn't moved in nearly twenty-four hours.
The food tray remained untouched by the door, condensation gathering inside the water glass, untouched and useless. The room's air had started to sour with the weight of breathless silence. Aaron lay still in the center of the room, curled tightly at first, then sprawled out... as if even his body had given up.
His mind was a prison now. A loop of screams, claws, red on fur, lifeless eyes. And his voice—when he found it again—had turned against him, whispering curses, guilt, shame. He couldn't stop seeing the face of the woman he killed, even though he hadn't even known her name.
He didn't deserve to.
Each hour that passed seemed to weigh more heavily than the last, until something inside him—something human, something broken—snapped.
When Catherine and David opened the door and stepped into the chamber, they weren't expecting the silence to be so loud. But it hit them like a wall.
Then they saw him.
Aaron was collapsed on the sterile floor, a length of wire—thin but strong—wrapped mercilessly around his throat, digging deep into the soft fur of his neck. His lips were tinged blue. His claws limp by his sides, still holding the other end of the wire.
David let out a cry before his brain could catch up to his body. He sprinted across the room, skidding to his knees as he frantically unwrapped the wire, each second an agonizing eternity. Aaron was barely breathing—faint, shallow gasps that rattled like dry leaves in winter.
"Stay with me, stay with me, please—" David's voice cracked as he cradled Aaron's head, shaking with panic. He pressed his forehead against his son's, whispering anything and everything he could—words of comfort, apology, love, desperation.
Catherine followed, moving slower, but no less shaken. She knelt down beside them and gently placed a trembling hand on Aaron's head, her fingers stroking through the coarse fur between his ears. Like she had done when he was a child. When he used to cry himself to sleep after a nightmare. When she could still fix things with lullabies and warm cocoa.
"Aaron... baby, you're here," she whispered softly, her voice wet with tears. "You're here, you're okay. Just breathe. Please, just breathe..."
Aaron opened his eyes.
They were glassy, unfocused... but he looked up at them. And he saw them.
His lips trembled. The wire had bruised his neck, and each breath was a painful wheeze. His voice was hoarse, barely audible.
"I didn't... I didn't want to... I couldn't stop..."
"We know," Catherine said, brushing her thumb under his eye. "We know, sweetheart. You're not alone."
David held him gently, guiding him into a seated position and wrapping his arms around him. Aaron clutched his father's shirt with weak paws, sobbing into his chest. He couldn't hold it back anymore. The pain, the guilt, the confusion—it all spilled out in a raw, animal sound that echoed through the room.
"I killed her... I killed her..."
David closed his eyes, the weight of those words crushing him. "It wasn't your fault, Aaron. You weren't in control."
"But I felt it," Aaron rasped. "I wanted it. For a second, I wanted to hurt her. I liked it. That's not human. That's not me..."
Catherine pulled him gently into her arms as well, the three of them tangled together in grief. "You're scared. You were pushed beyond your limit. That doesn't make you a monster, it makes you a survivor."
Aaron shook his head violently. "I shouldn't have survived..."
David's heart shattered all over again.
There was no guidebook for this. No protocol for how to comfort your child after something like this. They were scientists, researchers, planners. But this—this was grief, guilt, and trauma given form. And it had to be lived through.
Eventually, they moved Aaron to the bed in the corner of the room. He didn't have the strength to walk, so they carried him, David supporting his legs, Catherine holding his shoulders.
They stayed with him for hours, cleaning his wounds, checking his vitals. A team had been on standby, but David waved them off. Right now, their son didn't need more strangers poking at him. He needed them.
Night fell.
The lights dimmed to a soft amber glow, and the room felt less sterile now, more like a sanctuary—though fragile and temporary.
Aaron lay curled beneath a blanket, Catherine seated beside him on the edge of the bed. Her fingers never left his fur, gently stroking, anchoring him. David sat in a chair across from them, rubbing his temples, eyes red and exhausted.
Aaron finally spoke.
"Will it always feel like this?"
David looked up. "Like what?"
"Like I've lost something I can never get back."
A long pause.
"Yes," David admitted softly. "But over time... it hurts less. Or at least, you learn to carry it without letting it crush you."
Aaron swallowed hard, blinking slowly. "I'm scared."
"I know," Catherine whispered, kissing his temple. "But you're still here. And we're not going anywhere."
—END— (to be continued...?)