Chapitre 1
Chapitre 1
YANN
Le hall de l’hôpital est un tombeau de silence, un purgatoire où chaque respiration est une prière étouffée. Je suis là, adossée au mur, le café renversé sur mes doigts, me brûlant la peau sans que je le sente. Laura est à côté de moi, ses larmes coulent encore, ses yeux bleus se noient dans un océan de douleur. Hervé tient Dorothée dans ses bras, ses petites mains potelées agrippant une poupée usée, ses yeux verts, ceux de Rosalie, me transperçant comme des lames. Le distributeur automatique bourdonne dans un coin, un bourdonnement mécanique qui me perce les tempes, mais je l’entends à peine. Tout ce que j’entends, c’est l’écho des bips dans ma tête, ces pulsations qui me maintiennent en vie autant qu’elles me tuent. Rosalie est là-haut, suspendue entre deux mondes, et je suis là, cloué au sol, dans l’attente d’un verdict que je redoute plus que tout.
Laura renifle, s’essuie le nez avec le dos de sa manche et murmure : « Elle est forte, Yann. Elle s’en sortira, n’est-ce pas ? Sa voix tremble, un fil prêt à se rompre, et j’ai envie de lui répondre, de dire oui, de la rassurer, mais les mots s’étouffent dans ma gorge. Je hoche la tête, un geste mécanique, parce que si je parle, je vais craquer, et je ne peux pas me le permettre. Pas maintenant.
Hervé soupire, ajuste Dorothée contre son épaule, et murmure : « Il faut y croire. » Mais ses cernes sous les yeux trahissent son doute, et je sens le même poison me ronger, une peur collante s’infiltrer dans mes veines. Et si elle ne revient pas ? Et si elle choisissait l’autre côté, ce vide noir que je sens planer au-dessus de nous ? Je ferme les yeux, mes poings se serrent, et je murmure son nom dans ma tête, encore et encore, comme un mantra pour la retenir : Rosalie, Rosalie, reviens à moi.
Des pas précipités résonnent dans le couloir, un claquement sec qui me fait ouvrir les yeux. C’est une infirmière, la même qui nous a expulsés de la pièce, le visage fermé comme une porte d’acier. Elle s’arrête devant nous, haletante, et ses yeux passent de Laura à moi, une lueur étrange dans son regard. Mon cœur s’arrête, un bloc de glace dans ma poitrine, et je m’assois, le mur grinçant sous mes paumes.
« Elle s’est réveillée », dit-elle, la voix froide mais tremblante. « Mais... Venez vite.
Éveillé. Le mot me frappe comme un coup de massue, et pendant une seconde, je respire, un souffle rauque qui me déchire la gorge. Elle est vivante. Elle est de retour. Mais le « mais » de l’infirmière me fige, une ombre qui s’étend sur cette lueur d’espoir. Laura halète, un son entre la joie et la terreur, et Hervé resserre son étreinte sur Dorothée, les yeux écarquillés. Je ne perds pas une seconde, mes bottes claquent sur le linoléum et je cours, Laura sur mes talons, l’infirmière nous guidant à travers les couloirs blancs qui sentent le désinfectant et la mort.
We reach the bedroom, and I push the door open with my shoulder, the wood slamming against the wall. Claire is there, leaning over the bed, her sobs suspended, her trembling hands hovering over Rosalie. Clément stands behind it, frozen, his fists clenched, his brown eyes bulging. And she... Rosalie. She’s there, her eyes open, her green pupils shining in the harsh light, but they’re empty, fixed, lost in a nothingness I don’t understand. The oxygen mask is removed, her pale face exposed, that red gash on her cheek screaming against her pale skin. She’s breathing, her chest heaving, weakly, but she’s breathing.
I move forward, my legs trembling, and fall to my knees beside the bed, grasping her hand. “Rosalie,” I whisper, my voice hoarse, broken, a stifled cry. “You’re here. You’re back.” But she doesn’t move, doesn’t turn her head, doesn’t look at me. Her fingers remain limp in mine, cold, lifeless, and a dull terror rises inside me, a snake coiling around my throat.
“She... she’s not talking,” Claire whispers, her voice trembling, tears rolling down her cheeks. “She’s opened her eyes, but she’s not reacting.”
Clement grunts, a guttural sound, and his fists slam into the back of the bed, making the metal rattle. “What the fuck is going on?” he roars, his eyes locked with the nurse’s, who takes a step back.
“We don’t know yet,” she said, her hands raised as if to protect herself. “The doctor is coming. She’s out of the coma, but... there’s damage. We need to assess it.”
Damage. The word hits me, a shard of glass in my skull, and I stare at Rosalie, searching for a sign, anything. “Rosalie,” I repeat, louder, my voice rising, desperate. “Look at me. Say something. Anything.” But her eyes remain lost, fixed on the ceiling, and her mouth, half open, lets out only a faint breath, a wordless whisper. I grip her hand tighter, my nails digging into her skin, and I feel the tears rising, hot, sour, rolling down my cheeks without me being able to stop them.
Laura enters behind me, a sob choking in her throat, and she comes closer, placing a hand on my shoulder. “She’s alive, Yann,” she whispers, but her voice trembles, and I know she sees the same thing I do—that body awake, but that soul absent. Hervé stays by the door, Dorothée in his arms, and the little girl reaches out toward the bed, babbling a “Tata” that tears at my insides.
The doctor finally arrives, a thin guy with thick glasses, his back pressed against him like a shield. He approaches the bed, his eyes flicking over Rosalie, then over to us, and his face remains impassive, clinical, which makes me want to rip off that mask of coldness. “She’s conscious,” he says, his voice flat. “But there’s brain damage. We need to run tests. She might not speak, walk, or… remember. It’s too soon to know.”
Brain damage. The words sink into me like nails, and I leap to my feet, my fists clenched, my breaths coming in gasps. “Too soon?” I snarl, my voice rising to a low growl. “She’s here, breathing, and you tell me you don’t know? Do something, damn it!”
Clément takes a threatening step toward the doctor, but Claire holds him back, her trembling hands gripping his arm. “Yann,” she whispers, pleading, but I barely hear her. I turn to Rosalie, kneel again, and cup her face in my hands, my fingers rough against her soft, cold skin.
“Can you hear me, Rosalie?” I said, my voice breaking, a scream that pierced the silence. “It’s me. Yann. Come back to me. Fight. I beg you.”
Her eyes move, a slight tremble, and for a second, a spark passes, a green flash that takes my breath away. But then it fades, and her gaze falls back into space, her lips quivering soundlessly. I collapse, my forehead against the edge of the bed, my tears soaking the sheets, and I whisper, “I love you. I fucking love you. Come back to me, whole or broken, I don’t care.”
Laura sobs behind me, her hands covering her mouth, and Claire comes closer, stroking Rosalie’s hair, her prayers resuming in a weak whisper. Clément remains frozen, his fists shaking, and Hervé rocks Dorothée, who begins to cry, a high-pitched sound piercing the chaos. The doctor mumbles something about scans, tests, but I can’t hear him. All I hear is the silence in his eyes, the emptiness screaming at me that she’s there, but not really.
I straighten up, wipe away my tears with the back of my sleeve, and stare at the doctor, my voice low and dangerous. “You save her. You bring her back. It doesn’t matter what it takes.” He nods uncomfortably and leaves, followed by the nurse. I sit back down, take his hand again, and stand there, my eyes fixed on her, on that shell that still houses my Rosalie, somewhere, imprisoned.
Laura comes over, sits down next to me, and whispers, “She’s still here, Yann. We have to believe it.” But her words ring hollow, and I see the fear in her eyes, the same fear that’s eating away at me. Claire and Clément stand by the bed, broken statues, and Dorothée is still crying, an echo of our despair.
The beeps continue, steady, relentless, but they tell me nothing. She’s awake, but at what cost? I squeeze her hand, my fingers trembling, and I swear silently: I’ll bring you back, Rosalie. No matter what’s left of you, I’ll bring you back. Because without her, I’m nothing, and that emptiness in her eyes is a war I refuse to lose.
