Short Story: Aged 13 - When Mum went to hospital.

This is a piece that I submitted for my creative CV assignment, enjoy.

 

 

                                    Aged 13: When Mum went to hospital.

I’ve never liked hospitals. The sharp, metallic smell of chemicals and medicines that float through each and every corridor, the off white walls and out of date magazines with crinkled, ripped pages. And now, I really don’t like hospitals because this one is keeping my Mother captive, like a prisoner, hooked up to machines with wires and electronic pads.

She’s just lying in the bed looking so calm and at peace. The crisp linen is folded neatly around her, just how beds in hotels are turned down. But this is no hotel or vacation at a luxury spa, my Mother isn’t here through choice.

I feel sick because I know how much she is hurting, the pain numbed by sedatives. Her face is drained of all colour, so pale that she looks transparent. I want to get up and run away, leave this place and never look back because this woman is not my Mum. My Mum is bright, bubbly and full of life, this person is frail and motionless with dark brown rings circling her eyes, her arms patterned with deep purple bruises.

They’ve brought her a plate of hospital food, something that resembles a kind of broth with a bread roll and a little pot of Greek yoghurt. Not like she can eat it anyway, do they just like adding insult to injury?

Her eyes flutter open and she smiles at me, shifting ever so slightly in the bed. She’s so ill, I can barely stand it. They’ve found tumours in her stomach, which are believed to contain cancer cells. Not only that, she’s anaemic and only has half the amount of blood that she should have in her body. Seven transfusions later and here she lies looking the best she has in weeks, and she looks truly awful.

She leans over to me and takes my hand in hers. Her fingers are cool and gentle, but her hands look so weak and fragile. I’ve missed her reassuring touch; she squeezes gently on my palm. It feels as though a bolt of lightning has plummeted through my chest cavity and straight in to my heart, and in this moment of weakness a solitary tear rolls down my cheek.

A nurse walks in to the room and abruptly rings a bell, the kind they used to have in primary school to tell you play time was over. No length of visiting hours could ever be long enough, I don’t ever want to leave her side. I guess I’ll be back tomorrow, six until seven-thirty.

Short Story: Clean Break.

It wasn't a clean break.

Everyone could see through her bravado. The way she walked was different, as though something was missing, and that's because something was. A part of herself was gone, perished in the cross fire to the point of no return. a part of her had been destroyed.

She'd tried to hold on to it, to keep it together but with each knock her walls got weaker. She was crumbling slowly and no amount of  "It's okay" and "You're better than that" could save her now.

The hurt was all just too much, she had been drained of all emotion.

She sat staring at the white wash wall. No tears flowed down her face, no screams gurgled in her coarse throat. She felt empty. She wanted so much to just cry, to hurt, to feel again but nothing came out. Instead she sat staring blankly into space whilst feeling her heart break into a thousand pieces.

Short Story: The Path.

A mist was beginning to settle; the houses ahead were barely visible, even though they were lined one after the other all the way down the road. The street lights shone through the murkiness down on to the sodden pathway, a hop scotch of puddles and discarded cigarette butts. She could see that the road ahead was dimly lit and she knew being alone at this time was not a good idea. The trees on the right side of the road loomed over her, swaying in the growing breeze.

The walk back was to be a cold one. Not only because of the wind that whipped at her face and the droplets of rain that pattered down on her leather jacket, but because of the coldness she felt within her once beating heart.

Every little noise sent her in to a panic. The rustling of leaves in the nearby park, the whine of a car alarm in the distance.  Her pace quickened and the tap-tap-tap of her high heeled boots grew louder. Echoing.

She passed the motorbike that was always chained up outside of a derelict looking house and wondered to herself “does anyone ever actually ride that?”

The rain grew heavier and the wind blew harder, but she pushed on knowing her destination was just past the trainers that hung down decoratively from the telephone pole.

It was during times like these when she saw with real clarity. She’d been through enough hurt now to recognise this feeling, but she found comfort in knowing that nothing more could be taken from her because she had nothing left to lose.

She was once a bright, happy young woman who needed nothing other than herself to remain that way. She relied on no one and asked for nothing. She did well at school, at college, passed her driving test and held down a steady job for two years whilst studying. She was a proud person who cared for others and would always do what was asked of her even if it meant putting herself at risk.

It was inevitable really, that one day she would just… break.

Reaching home she unlocked the door and walked in to the flat. All was still, everyone was asleep.

The feeling of sadness swelled inside of her as she sulked to her room, alone again. Turning the key in the lock she longed to be greeted by something other than a cold, empty room. She wandered to the mirror and caught a glance at her reflection, a broken girl with tangled wet hair and smeared eye make-up, was this a true reflection of who she was now?

Perching herself on the window ledge she flung open the catch and raised a cigarette to her cracked lips. Bright embers of orange burnt as she inhaled deeply and blew clouds out of the window. She looked back on the path she had just walked, the path that would once again lead her back to him.