The first few chapters were beta'd by the lovely Victorygin! If you like my stuff, I urge you to check out her work!
Maleficent
"Charon – I'm dying."
Both of us sit on the driver's seat of the little wagon that we use to take goods to market, me at the reins. One of our Brahmin pulls it along at a leisurely pace. I usually don't go to market - but he insisted that I come, to see yet another doctor, to get yet another opinion.
My body is shutting down. I've lived a hard life. In the wastes, sixty-four is well past the average life span. The radiation, the wounds, the smoking, the drinking, the stress – all of it took its toll.
"How long do you have?" he asks, hesitantly.
"Six months. Maybe a little less, maybe a little more."
I glance over at him. He's quiet, hands balled into fists, teeth clenched, eyes closed. He doesn't want to lose me.
I don't want to hurt him, but he must give up hope of a cure. I can't take too many more of these trips. "The pain will get worse. We need to stock up on Med-X." I haven't told him how bad it is. Virgil knows; has known for a long time.
His eyelids flutter – he can't cry. Ghoulification is apparently Hell on tear ducts. Their eyes seem to work fine, but they have to depend on radiation to heal them from time to time. Lubrication is a constant battle.
His voice is thick. "We'll have to tell Virgil."
Time to break the news. "Virgil already knows."
"How?"
"He asked me, a couple months ago, how much pain I was in. I can't hide it from him." I admit.
"But you can hide it from me?" he asks, upset, angry.
"I couldn't bear to hurt you."
Virgil
Mom and dad will be back home tonight. I'm worried…I don't know how he'll take the news. We hid it from him as long as we could. I even managed to do mom's chores in addition to mine, when the pain was bad enough.
I remember when I confronted her about it. Both of us were leaning on the fence, watching the Brahmin wander in their pen. "How bad is it, mom?" I asked.
At first, she tried to deflect, acting like she didn't understand my question. But she taught me well – I know better. I saw her pained expressions in the morning – the ones dad didn't see. The ones she made sure he didn't see. I found telltale signs of Med-X use – empty syringes hidden around the house, cotton balls in the trash, her dilated pupils after she came back from the outhouse in the morning.
I put a hand on her arm. "Tell me."
Her silver hair ruffled in the wind. She didn't look at me. "It's bad." She said. I pressed her. "I'm dying, Virgil." Shocked, I squeezed her arm reflexively. "Don't tell your father. I'll tell him, when the time is right."
She'd told him, shortly after. She didn't phrase it quite as bluntly as she did with me – dad had hope of a cure, that there'd be some way to save her; to keep her with us a little bit longer. This is the fourth doctor they've been to see. I doubt her prognosis has changed.
When I see them pull up, I know that she's finally told him. It's in his body language – slumped shoulders, hands clenched, eyes unfocused, staring at the ground. I wonder if he's angry at me for not telling him.
She meets my eyes. "Stable the Brahmin, please. Your father and I have to talk."
They go inside as I unharness Jessie and lead her to the barn.
I stand at the fence for a long while, leaning at the place where mom turned my comfortable existence upside-down. I'm only nineteen, but I feel as old as the hills.
I walk slowly towards the house. Before I mount the steps, I decide to look in the living room window, and I'm met with a sight that nearly breaks my heart.
Dad is curled up on the small sofa, head in mom's lap. He's gripping her leg tightly, as she strokes his cheek, the side of his head, running her fingers through the little hair he has left. Her face lifts, and she sees me through the glass. With a terse nod of her head, she tells me to take a seat on the porch, and wait.
He may be a strange dad – but he's the only one I've ever known. None of the other kids I knew had a ghoul for a father. He taught me how to shoot, how to fight, how to booby-trap. He not only raised me, he trained me. Seeing his large frame curled up on a sofa, hanging onto mom for emotional support was shocking.
After a while, mom joins me on the porch, and settles into her chair. "He's sleeping now."
I ask her, "How long?"
"Six months. Maybe more, probably less."
I nod. We've known this for a while. I admit, I did hope for something different, a miracle – but I knew that it wouldn't happen.
"Virgil, I have to tell you the truth about your dad."
