Author's Note:
Some extra modifications here and there to previous chapters. Please do review, and point out any improvements or mistakes!
I'll try to keep up the updating rate to once a month. I'm right smack in the middle of midterms, and then it's finals, so this might be the last chapter for a while before January. I might try to squeeze something out during thanksgiving week… we'll see.
Thank you guys for reading this story. I'm starting to get attached haha.
Someone's done something horrendous. You are faced with three choices; forgive them, forget them, or fight them.
A fierce man's answer is to fight.
A kind man's answer is to forgive.
A wise man's answer is to forget.
But there is one more answer, and that is the path most of us take. For we are, most of us, neither wise, kind, nor fierce.
That answer is nothing. Not to forget, not to forgive, not to fight.
Nothing. Do nothing, think nothing, hide your head in the sand, and hope that it will all go away.
And we laugh at the ostriches, not because we think they're foolish, but because, deep down, we know that we do the same.
Thus is the nature of mankind.
I don't know when it started. Probably around that time of the Bakers' dinner, a few years ago. Or maybe it was around the chicken egg and salmonella incident.
I don't know how it started. Little cracks here and there, tiny little wedges. Daily conversations that add to the burden, one straw at a time.
I don't know where it started. At home? At work? During a family trip? Something? Somewhere?
But the least I know is why it started. Why, why did something that was so stable and firm when you were younger, turn out to be so flimsy and unreliable? Why do we not seem to care? Why did we never see this coming until it's close enough to explode in our faces, before we do anything to try to patch it up?
Do we even want to patch it up?
ooo
I wake up with pale white light streaming through the blinds.
There's an unfamiliar white all around me. My room was all in dark browns, so at once I know I'm not home. I slowly sit up, feeling somewhat groggy. My watch tells me that it's 6:20 in the morning.
The room I'm in is very minimalistic. There's my bed, there's two chairs, a small protruding counter on the opposite wall, and a small microwave and TV on the little counter. There's also curtains that can be drawn around the bed, a window with blinds, and a bathroom.
A dull ache on my arm draws my attention, and I see a bunch of bandaging tape wrapped around a needle, connected to an intravenous drip. The blankets on me look and feel very cheap, a thin layer of cotton separating me from the clean yet slightly stale air. The drone of a heater by the window drags my eyes to the little patch of sky barely visible through the blinds.
Today, the sky is a blue drained of all its energy, like a faded blanket washed all too many times. It's probably a grey, depressing winter morning, pallid and freezing to the bone. For a day like this, I usually stay home, and I wonder why I'm not back in my forever-messy bed, sleeping in until it's past noon. I can't seem to remember, though. This is obviously a hospital or clinic of some sorts, but I can't recall why I ended up here.
Just then, something shifts. Locks of tired blond hair spread out all around, and with a jolt, I recognize my mother, lightly asleep, head resting at the feet of the bed. I reach forward and clear away strands of hair from her face, and is startled by how pale and tired and aged she looks. She looks like she's been crying, too, and there are heavy bags and dark circles underneath her eyes and their restlessly fluttering eyelids.
Gently, I lift the blanket and slide off of bed, mindful of the tube of the IV drip. The floor is icy cold, and I shiver with the sudden sensation.
Which makes me notice what I'm wearing. And what I'm not wearing. I'm wearing my own boxers, but that's pretty much it. I'm not wearing anything else that belongs to me; a thin, green pair of pants, a light green shirt, and a green robe which has hems reaching down to just above my knees. Standard in-patient outfit — and not very effective at keeping warm, I must also add.
Tip-toeing around my mom, I lay the blanket over her back. It's probably too thin to provide any comfort, but I want her to get some sleep. She looks exhausted to the very core.
Slowly walking around the bed, I arrive at the IV pole, and is glad to find that it's mounted on wheels. Softly, so as to not make any sudden noise that would wake mom up, I push the IV pole around her and to the window. I tilt the blinds so I can see more, and glance back to check that the light isn't going to bother her rest.
I was right; it's a pretty dull and depressing day today. Grey, tumbling clouds dot the horizon of the pale morning. Frost mar the windowpanes. I look down, and find that this room is about the fifth floor up. My window is facing the main entrance, and I can make out the words "Mayfield Municipal Hospital" spelled out on top of the large doorway.
So I really am in the hospital. I close my eyes, struggling to remember what had happened, grasping like a blind man for my last memory.
A sharp spike of pain doubles me over, and I have to hold on to the windowsill to keep myself from collapsing onto the floor. Panting, I manage to get back on my feet. My movements feel stiff and restricted.
I stumble into the bathroom, trying to find out what happened, clinging to the IV pole for support. A pale, haggard face stares back at me in the mirror above the sink, short hair tousled and eyes blank with fatigue. I shrug off my robe, take off my shirt, and blink in surprise.
My entire torso is covered in bandages, a criss-crossing mess of intertwined gauze and fabric. I turn around, and see dots of dark red seeping through the whiteness of my likewise bandaged back — dried blood, no doubt. My face is so thin and shadowed that it looks dead; I look like some weird, half-mummified corpse with a couple of wounds in the back. My eyes are the only things that look remotely alive, but even they show the depleted blue of the listless sky. If Juli were here, she would probably start freaking out because I don't look like myself at all…
Thinking about her name somehow makes me remember everything, and I stumble backwards as the night's memory comes rushing back. How dad tried to punch Granddad, how he insulted me, how I punched him, and how he threw me back.
I probably hurt my back during my fall off the table. And since that was probably last night, I'd probably been out cold for more than twelve hours. And mom's here. But dad's not.
Suddenly very tired, I grab the robe and the shirt from the floor of the bathroom, and put them on. I walk out the bathroom, tug my IV pole back into its original position, and climb into bed. Mom's sleeping so soundly that I don't want to take away the blanket I put over her, so I take my robe, and spread it over me. It provides very minimal warmth, but I'm too tired to care. Soon, I'm drifting off into another restless, shallow sleep.
ooo
I wake up in the afternoon, blinking to adjust to the dim lighting. Mom's standing in front of the tiny microwave, her back facing me. The microwave's lights are on, showing that it's currently heating something. Mom has her head bowed, probably watching the counter count down until the heating is finished.
But then I hear a gently whispered, "Amen," and realize that she'd been praying.
My family isn't very religious. Technically, we're Christians, but definitely not devout ones; we weren't raised reading the Bible, and we very rarely go to church. Naturally, we don't pray. I never do before I go to bed, nor before I eat. I mean, I respect those customs, but I don't think they're necessary. This is the first time in maybe three years that I've heard mom pray.
The microwave dings, and mom lifts her head. Expertly opening the door and taking a bowl out, she sets it on the counter, and produces a little wooden table from out of nowhere — you know, the kind where you set it up so that sick people can eat without getting out of bed.
She hums a little while she sets the wooden table aside, and out of nowhere she gets a spoon to start stirring the contents of the bowl. The smell of chicken noodle soup waft over to me. With some effort, I sit up.
"Mom," I croak. My voice startles me; it literally sounds like a toad's call.
She turns around so fast, and is by my side in less than a milisecond, kissing my forehead and cheeks and touching my face and hugging me and asking if it hurts and if I'm hungry and if I'm still tired and that I can lie down if I want and that she brought a change of clothes and asking me if I need to pee. I'm a little shocked by the sudden overwhelming warmth, and it's a few seconds before I hug her back and pat her back and say, "I'm fine, mom. I'm okay. Honest."
"Oh, my poor baby," she whispers as she kisses me on my forehead again. "I'm so sorry I missed you this morning. I woke up to find the blanket on me. You shouldn't have done that; you could've caught a cold."
A part of me wants to ask where dad is, but I can tell, from something in my mom's eyes, that she doesn't want me to ask. So I hold my peace and tell her that no, it doesn't hurt, and that my sleep is great, and that I'm hungry and the soup smells great and ask her if I can have some.
She beams down at me, and quickly helps me into a more comfortable sitting position before setting up the wooden table and bringing the bowl of soup over. Before I know it, I'm practically being spoon-fed the world's most delicious chicken noodle soup.
"Mom, I'm alright. Really. I can eat by myself." I manage to say in-between bites.
"Nonsense," she says happily. "Oh, this takes me back to when you were five, and you had your first major fever… Me and your dad worked out a schedule to take care of you, but you wouldn't eat a single bite from your dad's spoon…"
Suddenly her eyes dim, realizing that she has somehow brought dad into the conversation. I quickly fill in the silent gap with compliments on her cooking and the soup, but I can tell that she's already on the verge of tears.
I don't want to see my mom cry. It's not very pleasant to see someone who's supposed to take care of you show their weakness in front of you. Call me a spoiled brat, call me selfish, but I immediately say that I've got to go to the bathroom, and ask her if I can also have the clean set of clothes to change into. I don't think I can stand seeing my mom cry. Her tears would be tangible evidence of this situation; that my dad caused all of this, that I'm in the hospital because of my own father, and that he's probably shirking responsibilities somewhere, hiding from reality.
"But Bryce, you haven't even finished your soup!" she protests halfheartedly, her voice choking up.
"I'll eat it later, mom, it's delicious. But I really gotta go."
Sighing, she takes away the wooden table and helps me off my bed. She slides the IV pole around the bed, and ushers me into the bathroom. Then she hands me a wad of clean clothes.
I can almost see the tears rolling in her eyes, and it's all I can do to smile weakly, grab my clothes, and close the bathroom door.
Grabbing the IV pole, I sink down onto the tiles.
What is happening to my family?
Or, rather, What is happening to my so-called family?
Family (n): A group of individuals living under one roof, and usually under one head.
- Merriam Webster Dictionary of the English Language.
Family (n): A group consisting of grandparent(s), parent(s) and child(ren) who don't necessarily live together, but who share a strong bond that allows them to identify with each other as kins, and strengthen their relationship through mutual love and respect.
- Life
