Will was up at sunrise, as the huge red eye climbed the frost-rimmed lime-green hills of Nottingham Town. It was peaceful, early in the morning; no-one up, no talking, nothing. And for a short while, he could pretend to himself that everything was normal, everything was fine. In the silence that was thick enough to swallow him, he could kid himself that his mother wasn't desperately ill, wasn't dying, that she was asleep across the hall in the bedroom with his father.
But it wasn't. And she wasn't. So he got dressed and stuffed his school clothes into a sports bag and left the house silently, as he did every morning. He hated being in the house now, it was so empty, silent and lonely without her, a constant reminder that she was somewhere else, dying somewhere other than her own home.
"NO." he told himself out loud, to drive away the thought, "She isn't dying. She can't."
The house was colourless now, bland and a constant, painful echo of all the wonderful memories he had of living there.
Will was pretty certain that no-one knew of his early morning visits; he was up at the crack of dawn, and only returned when his little brother was fast asleep. He couldn't stand being there now. It just felt empty and wrong, and he was desperate not to return until he had to.
He shivered as the icy coil of wind tore savagely at his skin, biting him with teeth sharper than needles, chilling him to the bone. The black T-shirt he wore clung loosely to him as he ran, doing little to drive away the chill wind that ate away at him.
He could have simply taken the bus, but few travelled at this time, and it cost money, something he didn't have, as his bus pass only subsidised certain buses.
There was another reason as well. Being constantly tense and worried about his mother's health had left him with an uncontrollable, accumulated store of nervous energy, the kind that made him want to pace, or yell or something, so running helped to use up that energy.
The hospice wasn't too far away; and running, it took him little more than 15 minutes.
He had never told his friends about his mother, well he had told Marian, but she was more in tune with his feelings than the others, and she was in the same year, and the others were older. It wasn't to say he didn't trust them or anything, it was just….he struggled to think. He didn't know really. He just hated having to pretend that everything was alright, when it so clearly wasn't.
He slipped in quietly after registering at the reception. The hospice was quite small, but the staff were friendly, and there was a supposedly wonderful view overlooking the river. He could understand why his mother had chosen to spend her last days here.
NOhe told himself again, firmly she couldn't die. She had to stay alive, for them.
He traced a path to the cancer ward almost subconsciously, knowing every corner of the place and hated it. He hated its purpose, and he hated it that his mother had come here to die, with no hope left, no fight left in her. He hated the cancer, its treatment and its effects. He hated it that his mother might never come home, might die alone here without her family and her home.
He hated the whole situation.
He swallowed as he reached the door. Immediately questions accumulated in his skull, clamouring to be answered. Would she be worse or better than yesterday? Would she even be able to talk? Will hesitated, taking a breath as his fingers traced the smooth, cool wood of the door, gripping the handle tightly.
He pushed the door open gently, "Mum?"
There was no response. The room was warm, unlike the bitterness of the cold outside. The large window reflected the winter scene; bare, grey, skeletal trees, an icy, pallid river, and fields crisp with frozen dew.
His gaze fell on the emaciated shell that his beautiful, wonderful mother; so full of life and love; had become.
He tried again, "Mum?"
The sleeping figure on the bed murmured incoherently in their unconscious state, stirring weakly. Tubes protruded haphazardly from her flesh mainly morphine, to stem the agony that wracked her skeletal frame.
Will slipped into the chair beside the bedside, linking long slender fingers with his mother's bony, jutting claws, "Mum?"
The emaciated figure twisted, exhausted, to face her son. A small smile lit the pale, almost transparent features, the once sharp, twinkling brown eyes, faded and misty. She was barely a shadow of her former self. "Will." She blinked, trying to focus tired eyes, "Shouldn't you be at school darling?"
He shook his head, "No, were on holiday Mum." He lied, a lump in his throat choking the words he spoke. He hated lying, longed to tell her the truth; that he hated school, dreaded still more returning home to a house empty and cold, without her.
"I'm sorry, my darling. It's just so hard. I'm so tired. Sometimes I just want to go to sleep and never wake up." A tear trickled down her cheek as she spoke.
"Please don't cry, Mum." He whispered, fighting tears himself. It was unbearable. She was always so strong. To see her like this was….horrible.
"I'm sorry Will." She whispered, "It just hurts so much. I want it to end." Her voice was fading as she grew drowsy. In seconds she was asleep again.
Her hands still clutched his, and he pulled away gently, so as not to waken her. He swallowed, looking down her. She seemed so small, so fragile and so empty.
"Bye Mum." He whispered.
Suddenly she seemed terrifyingly frail and thin.
She had to keep fighting. For all of them.