Waking late... waking to an unexpectedly empty bed... these two things alone give Alex a moment's pause. Only a moment. Only long enough to blink groggily at the empty space where Violet should have been. He can feel things starting off on the wrong foot, that pinching irritation when he knows this day is going to be a bad one, but there's no way around it.

Out of bed. He wants a shower, but twenty minutes late puts the kibosh on that. It's while dressing and prettying himself for work that he's confronted with the chaos left in Violet's wake. Most of this, he simply tidies up mechanically: brush his own teeth, rinse and put away her toothbrush along with his, wash his face, hang up her towel properly, dress himself, collect her clothes off the floor. He could skip those things, leave the mess, not stop to make the bed, possibly collect a few of the lost minutes just by ignoring all this, but that would only make this day worse, so he just does them.

The upstairs mess brings a sigh out of him. Only a small one. It isn't so terrible, in the grand scheme of things, and he will take her little messes in his bedroom without complaint, with a sort of fondness, even: it's part-and-parcel to the strange delightfulness that is Violet.

But his kitchen? Come on!

That's when he puts his hands over his eyes for a moment, breathing beneath his palm, steeling himself. Exhaling, he starts through this mess, putting things to rights quickly. Something about her note rings false - not a lie, but he squints at it before he folds the paper into his jacket pocket.

And, after a last look at his messy kitchen (which, really, is not messy anymore except to him), he locks the door and swings around to the side of the house to his bike and - "Chingado!" Among other expletives, some of them in English. He has himself a proper temper tantrum while he stomps back through the house, re-locking it, and gets the car out of the garage.

The hairs on the back of his neck may be a-tingle, and Alex cocks his head curiously while he thumbs the fob for his car and trails his string of irritated profanity into silence, but he's not going to let this put him off his day (any further than he's already off it, anyway). He gets in, he pulls on the seatbelt, and - despite the awesome composure check - he about jumps out of his skin when something falls outside the car, jolting upright and letting the seatbelt snap back from his hand. He breathes out, reopens the car door.

He talks to the cat in Spanish. "Cat, you are lucky I didn't run you over." Out of the car - at this point, late is late, and he's definitely late; it makes him jittery, irritated, but he's passed the point of no return when it comes to tardiness - and he starts to chase after the cat the way only a person that has never owned a cat would do. You know, like the cat will stay there and let itself be caught instead of be an asshole and flee.

At least he as the sense to make the sort of whispery noises that cats seem to like, pss pss pss, here kitty kitty. As recognition settles in, "How did you even get here, you silly cat? Come here, I will take you home." Somehow, he must be rationalizing this: did Blue Bell just jump in his car when he wasn't paying attention? Did Violet bring the cat without telling him? Did it just follow her? That this doesn't make sense hasn't occurred to him yet.

Alex drops to a knee briefly, peering under the car with his fingertips bracing his weight delicately against the weather-stripping below the driver's side window, trying to keep his finger-prints off the car itself. More pss pss noises chase the disappearing cat... and then she's gone, and he straightens up, looking baffled. No, looking understandably baffled. For a moment, he starts to the back of the car, like he means to chase this little escape artist - but okay.

So this makes him a terrible human, but it's not his fucking cat, and it's not supposed to be in his garage, so if it happens to have escaped? And it does turn out to be Blue Bell? He'll feel really bad for Violet, but - between you and me? - he will not be sorry the cat is gone. <.<

So, yes. He looks for this cat for a second, but then it becomes Somebody Else's Problem. He gets in his car - and isn't it lucky he went for the A8 after all? That thing is FAST out of the garage, and apparently Alex is feeling quite in-tune with all 286 BHP, because zoooooms~ right on down Bayside toward town.

That tire-squeal, though. Alex grits his teeth when the car loses traction on the wet pavement, when it veers into the bike-lane, and he quietly thanks God that he's the only person in this town that rides his bike on a rainy day, so there's no one there to smash. "Fucking cat," is the breathless, jittery follow-up to that gratitude toward his God.

He peels his fingers off the steering wheel, flexing them, feeling them tense and tough with the recent effort to grip and hold on for dear life. Somewhere, in the way way back of his mind, something wants to tell him that this isn't normal - but what the fuck is normal around here? He tells that something in the back of his mind to STFU, and - before anyone has time to honk at him or get irritated that he's halfway in his lane and halfway in the bike lane - he eases his foot off the brake, lets the car sliiiide its way out of traffic entire, taking up the entirety of the bike lane.

And he puts it in park, gets out his phone, and:

Hello, Violet. It's Alex. I almost killed your cat.
But it also almost killed me.

Don't think about suddenly breaking that guy's bike, Alex. That would not be a very Christian thing to do. Besides, Alex would be pissed if some asshole was parked in the bike lane, so - despite how irritated he is when he pulls on the wiper-lever, spraying down the windshield with that weird, car-version of Windex - he does not try to break the dude's bike.

Instead, he's juuuust about to start driving again when the phone rings. And his car is awesome, so he can push buttons and talk and make Marilyn listen to him on speaker, which is everyone's favorite way to have a conversation. "Yes, hello." Then he turns the car on and eases it back onto the road. Carefully. The lead-foot is more like an aluminum-foot now; he's already late, no point getting a ticket to go with his sticky windshield.

There's a hard hiss from Alex at that burst of noise, and he immediately starts pushing the volume down button on the steering wheel. Seriously, who needs to hear Marilyn/Satan bursting in their ears at full blast? Not Alex, that's who. And definitely not Alex after the morning that he's had already. So he listens to her at a lower volume, and he steers his car around the park - and this is why he hates taking the car in, because getting around the park from downtown to the hospital is a fucking nightmare.

(Pause here and appreciate the term nightmare in context, please.)

"Yes, Marilyn. Hello, it's Doctor Reyes." So, hey. At least he talks to pretty much everyone like he thinks their phone isn't keeping them up-to-speed about who they dialed. "I'm five minutes away. I'll be there presently, thank you." Can he just hang up on her? Is he allowed to do that?

'Cause he does. [End Call] is a very satisfying button to press. Especially while rolling one's eyes and navigating the "traffic" of a Gray Harbor morning. All nine cars are between him and the hospital, and why does this town even have stoplights? Seriously, a town of 20,000 people doesn't need 19,000 stoplights. He drums his thumbs on top of the steering wheel and stares at the one that really needs to change.

Okay. This is a short one (lol like alex).

Alex turns on the wiper-juice again and tap-taps the horn. You know, so the fucking cat will get off the hood of his car.

Mental note: Buy a new box of Kleenex to have handy when Alex has to tell Violet that he murdered her cat. She is probably going to be bummed, and he expects there will be tears. He keeps his eyes on the window while that cat skitters away, looking daggers at the monster while he eases his car on through the intersection.

And rubs his face with the hand not on the steering wheel, really smearing it into his forehead and up across the top of his head, dragging his hair back irritably. He has to go be a doctor still. 🙁

Alex has a routine. That routine went off the second he woke up, true, and each... second... that passes... it's like that routine keeps slipping more and more out of sync. Normally, he goes to his office first, to collect his coat. Or at least the locker room for his spare coat. But apparently that part of his routine is fucked, too. Hey, at least he has his badge~!

There's no explanation for the nurse about what happened on the way in, just him falling into doctor-mode between one step and the next, following on her heels because nurses always lead doctors around, right? Like, they really kind of run things, and doctors are just the guest stars that show up to boost the ratings. "Was?"

A nod gets the gist, thank you, nurse, and Alex stops for a second before pushing into that room, for the sake of his composure. One breath in, one breath out, that's what it takes, and then he's in that horrible room with that painful smell, and those people who aren't the people he knows, but oh dear Lord.

He's a father. He sympathizes. It washes over him in a momentary rush, his heart goes out to the guy, even as the urge to choke the bastard rises in the back of his throat like bile. She's too damn young, "You need to wait outside. Page security, please." There must be nurses or other people in here, right? They're not just letting this poor girl die without at least trying till he got here? Right this second, Alex doesn't have time for not-Amy's-dad. He has time for not-Amy, the one that he can fix if he tries hard enough.

It's time for latex gloves and doctor things and to have dads bodily removed by people bigger than Alex is if need be.

At first, Alex doesn't seem to understand the... coincidence. Or maybe he's just not willing to acknowledge it. He's focused on what he can do, on the assumption that the nurse will be back any second with orderlies that would be only too happy to escort Mister Not-Amy from the room; their jobs weren't exciting, they'd be glad to have something to do for a minute. His back is too the man, and he's doctoring it up, making a vague(ly insulting in its dismissiveness), "Hm," noise at the man's rambling.

It's not until the rising pitch that he looks back and up to this man, dark eyes rising while his head tilts into a shake, askew. "You stupid fucking prick," comes out of him, slow and low, disappointed but not surprised, like he saw this coming a mile away. A gloved hand pushes into the middle of his ex-father-in-law's chest, his arm meant to extend to put a little distance here.

He should realize it's not real. But, "You stupid fucking prick. Go over there, or she's going to die. Go over there, or I'm not going to save her." Which is a lie, 'cause he'd do it even if it's while he's being berated and Amy's dad is having an aneurysm. (Hospital is a good place to burst a vessel, at least.)

Alex takes that blow right across the mouth, like a good (bad) kid does, and his lip splits (and that's a bummer, 'cause his lips are pretty), blood slicing down the corner of his face. Almost immediately, reflexively, he lashes right back out - not with his hands, just the hard look while he uncurls from the flinch that blow brought to him. An eye for an eye, a busted lip for a busted lip, for the Bible tells him so~. Slurred, "We were kids, and we made a mistake. But I married her, and I made it right. I made it. Fucking. Ri - oh God."

The rapid series of no-no-nos that comes out of Alex is right on the fringe of panic. Once again, he does not have time for Amy's dad. He shoves heedlessly, over this dick-measuring contest, and he scoops that tiny thing up in both gloved hands, holding it in the cup of his palms, never mind that it's awful and gross and not real. "Sophia, baby, it's okay. I'm here, and I have you. Nurse! Somebody fucking help me!" He screams it at the door, holding this tiny thing in his palms, against his shirt.

While Amy dies. 'Cause fuck her. He has priorities.

Alex spent twenty years biting back arguments against this SOB just to keep peace in his house. Just so he didn't have to listen to Amy's bitching every time he so much as corrected the guy about anything. But right now? Holding his aborted daughter in both hands while Amy is laying dead in a hospital bed? "Fuck you, I gave her everything, everything she asked for."

And the only thing he wanted in return is the tiny thing cupped in his hands, held against his chest, ruining his perfect shirt. So, "NO," it cannot have his daughter. He puts his shoulder between the monster and the baby, scooting around the end of the bloody bed to put it between them, too, and there's another cut - this one a slice across both of those reaching hands, scalpel-sharp.

Each question makes Alex flinch hard. Not the splatter of black blood that hits him or the rip of his own skin beneath those nails, but the hard questions while he clutches what was supposed to be his daughter to his chest, huddling around her carefully. The only answer is the hateful look he pushes back, and then the thing...

...dissolves? Bleeds out? Pops? WHY DO WORDS FUCKING SUCK SO BAD?!

When the door opens, the strength goes right out of his knees, and he hits the tile on the floor next to the hospital bed. It hurts, jolts through him, and he looks up and of course it's Marilyn. "Get out. Get out! GET. OUT." And he closes his eyes hard, busted lip moving with prayer, flipping through his mental catalogue - Saint Michael, the Archangel, to defend him in battle and protect him against the wickedness and snares of the devil, a tumble of frantic Spanish. Also, God, he's like super sorry he cursed all morning and will go to Confession immediately after this.

Alex's two data points insist that all he has to do is wake up. He can't just drop the little thing that is his daughter, even if he knows beyond knowing that it's not her. So he closes his hand around it carefully, clutching that hand to the center of his chest, and he prays right over the top of the things that monster is saying. Blood drips from his scalp, across his forehead, to the corners of his eyes, and he squints against them while his busted lip continues to move, but none of it hurts like the things 'Marilyn' is saying.

And nothing she's saying hurts like the momentary twinge of wanting that her offer kindles in him. But not at the price it would exact; he might want Amy dead and gone, but not enough to barter for it. "No," is all there is to say for that.

His two data points war with Violet's [however-many-more]. Nothing is going to wake him up, so - already on his knees, with only the one hand free - he crawls awkwardly toward that cat. "Psss pss pss, come here, kitty." Because he thinks it's Violet's. And something has to get him the fuck out of here, why not this grinning cat. SINCE APPARENTLY GOD IS ON VACATION OR SOMETHING.

Wow, Alex is just going to be all kinds of fucked up after this. His scalp is bleeding, his lip is bleeding, his arms are bleeding under his shirt, and now his wrist is bleeding. So there's just Alex-blood all over the fucking place. There's no way REAL Alex is coming to work today. REAL Alex is going the fuck to church today.

Stumbling, flailing, he catches the edge of the bed with listless fingers and uses it to help pry him to his feet, hands slipping in blood - either his or the thing that used to be Amy or maybe it's that cat's or that Marilyn's, he's not really too sure. But he gets his feet under him, and he clutches his little dead baby (omg), and he wants desperately for that thing to bleed everywhere like the other thing did.

But he also scoops his arm around the cat; the REAL cat is a Rag Doll, and Alex is kinda hoping this one just rolls with it the way that one does, because - if not - this cat is on its own. He peels it off, and he falls toward the open door.

Hey, so. At least now Violet isn't the only one that bled all over Alex's sheets and ruined them. He's going to have to buy more sheets - and maybe one of those vinyl mattress protectors to go underneath them. And then explain that to his housekeeper. Should be fun.

But not right now.

Right now, it's his turn to gasp awake; but he doesn't curl up and cry, he just falls off the side of the bed, hits the floor hard, because he needed that on top of everything else. He tries to pull himself up, sees the cat laying there, and tells the poor cat, "I'm sorry I wanted to run you over." But he can't quite get off the floor yet, needs a minute of staring at the ceiling, breathing, bleeding on the floor, too.

After a few seconds, his battered hand reaches up, finds the phone on the nightstand, and he lays flat on his back on the floor, gasping for air, before he can make the phone-screen resolve into something he can read. No text; he calls to tell Violet, "I think I'm not okay."

Do you have any idea how much it's going to cost Alex to get that car fixed? 🙁