Master Of Disguise
The room had never looked so clean. The floor had been swept, the cushions straightened, and the fireplace cleaned out for the first time in years. The overhead lights had been extinguished for the event, and lamps covered in soft cloth had popped up in various corners of the room. A scented candle sat proudly on top of the television, working diligently to mask the smell of bleach that still lingered on the hardwood floor. A tiny teddy peeped out from underneath the couch, and Mitchie bent down slowly to retrieve it. The pink fur felt soft beneath her fingertips, and as she held it to her face and inhaled, a small tear ran down her cheek. She immediately pulled the toy away from her, not wanting to taint the smell or feel of the memories it held.
She settled it on the couch, safe between the plump pink pillows, and made her way sluggishly to the kitchen. Shane, still in pyjamas at four in the afternoon, was like a machine. Plates of sandwiches covered the kitchen table, and yet still he continued to butter slices of bread, methodically, never breaking eye contact with the butter knife. Yellow and white bread packages piled high beside him, a mountain reaching almost to his flannel encased hip.
"I think you've enough made now."
Although Mitchie had barely raised her voice above a whisper, her husband still jumped. Turning around, she could see his face was drenched in salty tears, yet his eyes were completely glazed over, lost in a memory that would soon become blurry. Mitchie softly took his hand, ice cold despite the heat of the room, and led him upstairs. She sat her husband down on the closed toilet seat, and began to stroke his hair, letting him sob softly into her cotton-covered chest. Suddenly, she was taking on the role of mother, infallible, a pillar of strength in the sea of madness that was soon to engulf them.
With Shane dressed and shaved, Mitchie continued to her room. Her black dress hung from a bent metal hanger, her shoes in desperate need of polish. Her tights lay crumped on her bed, and as she went to grab them she caught sight of the wall over her. A lifetime of memories hung on that wall – pictures, concert tickets, postcards from holidays past, all carefully placed to form a collage. Beautiful memories of a wonderful childhood which had been so quickly stolen. She decided against make-up, which would no doubt make her look cheery, and simply attempted to cover the bags forming beneath her brown eyes, the result of three weeks without proper sleep. Through her bedroom window she could see the people begin to arrive, all with their sombre expressions and dark clothing, drawn to the house like leeches, the smell of death in the air. She recognised less than half of them, but it was time to go downstairs, time to descend into hell.
"Cancer is a master of disguise, and death – not god – is the force that rules us. We have two choices when faced with the harsh reality of death – we succumb, or we survive. Personally, I haven't decided what to do yet, and I don't think I'll ever really know. It's hard to say goodbye to someone you hardly knew; someone who was only allowed to spend four short years on this earth. Someone who never got a chance to have a favourite brand of make-up, or even a favourite song. She didn't get to start school, for fuck sake, and now she's gone! She's gone, and she's not coming back. My baby girl is not coming back. I know we have memories, but they won't always be there. Soon they'll become blurry from use, and cracks will start to appear. We'll no longer be able to see her little face, or remember the way she talked. She'll run further and further to the back of our minds, until one day she's just not there anymore. And then what?" Mitchie clung to the pink teddy bear, silent tears streaming down her face. She looked at her child, her baby girl, so small and frail, blonde hair framing her angelic face. So peaceful, she almost looked like she was just sleeping. Any moment now, she would pop her head up, and scream "Gotcha!"
But her eyes didn't open.
Her lips didn't move.
Mitchie slipped the teddy in beside her, and the lid of the coffin closed with a thud.
Authors Note: I don't know how many of you got an email about this oneshot - I'm not sure if a prolonged case of inactivity deletes me from your author alerts - If it did not, I hope you remember me from my previous time on this site.
I will be leaving my penname as it is for a short time, for anyone who used to read my work to recognise.
To those who followed my work previously: I know some of us used to talk a lot, and I'm sorry if that fell by the wayside, but I hope you will still enjoy my work.
To anyone reading my work for the first time: Hi!
And finally, I understand that Camp Rock probably isn't the section it once was, and I probably won't be writing for this section again, but I figured it best to stick to what I know.
-n