Here it is, the final installment. I'd like to thank all my wonderful readers and reviewers, especially the reviewers of the last chapter. Reader, I ask that you honour and and look at the profiles of these wonderful people.
Thank you to BellaPur, Anna Scathach, jobogtheqwerty, samira parsa, Lamia of the Dark, slytheringrl573, StarKid McFly, anonymouth, Inkfire and especially my anonymous reviewer Maggie, who I couldn't thank personally.
I hope you all like this chapter. And (not to be a pimp, but) if you've liked this, I've begun another drabble series, Senses, if you want to look at that. (But only if you want to. No pressure. ^^)
Monday's child is fair of face,
Tuesday's child is full of grace,
Wednesday's child is full of woe,
Thursday's child has far to go,
Friday's child is loving and giving,
Saturday's child works hard for a living,
But the child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is bonnie and blithe and good and gay.
Traditional Nursery Rhyme
But the child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is bonnie and blithe and good and gay.
The room is lit by flickering incandescent bulbs, casting everything in a warm orange glow. The streetlamps outside illuminate pools on the street and sidewalk, making it look as if the heavy drops of rain are sparkling and dancing some quick Waltz.
The odd car drives by, sending curtains of water up, to splash down again in a glittering sheet.
The interior of the room is sterile but not unpleasant. Starched white sheets and plain lampshades are made up for by paintings on the walls and the smiling staff.
Mother and child lie cocooned in while blankets, pale faces set aglow by the warm lights. She holds her son close. He is asleep and breathing softly. The bit of hair he has is dark and downy, and now dry, it looks thin and wispy. If he had more, it would be sticking up, a mess.
The quiet peace of the room is interrupted by the opening of the door and a click of shoes.
"I'm sorry ma'am, but we've got to take him away now," a young girl in a starched uniform comes in.
The boy's mother looks up from the bed, her arms still tight around him. She's tired – very tired. It's all she can do to hold the boy close when her body won't cooperate to let her even sit up, or push the hair from her eyes.
The young girl comes closer, arms outstretched, "What did you say his name was, ma'am?" the girl is reaching over to pull him from her arms.
She uses the last bit of strength she has to crane her neck towards her son, planting a soft kiss on his forehead. When she speaks, her voice is thin and weak.
"Tom," she murmurs, and sinks back down.
It's been great writing this for you. Any final feedback you might have would be met with great pleasure.