Converting the Bad Boy ✔

Chapter 23

^Pic of Damian's parents  

This Chapter is in Damian's Point of View! I just thought we needed a little bit of his perspective, since there are two sides to each story, and Damian's is yet to be told. Enjoy! 😉

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Mum was asleep when I slipped into the room. The nurses told me to let her sleep. It was the meds, they said. Keeping her alive. I stared at her pale face, her thin but curved lips faint, her forehead traced with wrinkles the width of a hair strand. Mum wasn't that old – she would be forty-seven in July. The doctors said she might survive until then.

I sat by the window in the chair that creaked under my weight, letting my school bag drop to the ground beside me. The window let in overcast light from the brooding metallic clouds, and the whole room was gloomy with shadows. I watched my mother's chest rise and fall with breath, appreciating the life that still flowed through her, even if that life was painful and weak.

Mariam said I should cherish my mother. Easy for her to say, when she was just giving out advice like pamphlets. Speaking of, I reached for my bag and dug my hand through it until my fingers touched the smooth pages of the booklet Yaz handed me. I hauled it out, placing it on my lap and letting it stay there as I thought of Mariam. It seemed she wasn't alone; she had Yaz to help her with the stupid bet I made up. I had thought Mariam alone was bad, but when you put Yaz into the equation the two of them were an unstoppable force. And they were so intent on feeding me all their bullshit. The only reason I did the bet was because I was bored, and I wanted a challenge, a challenge that Mariam would definitely lose. She was so confident in her own success – I admired that confidence. I had confidence, sometimes a little too much, according to my Dad.

Just thinking about my Dad made me clench my fists. That bloody bastard was too caught up in his work to even stay with Mum in the hospital. He said he was working for all of us, so we'd have enough money for all the treatment, but what was the point of all that money he was making when he wasn't even spending time with his family, when he wasn't cherishing his wife, who might die by the end of this year?

I couldn't believe I used to look up to him. I used to aspire to be just like my dad, the businessman, the guy who exported and imported goods and flew all over the world, selling products. Most of the time it felt like he didn't even exist because of how long he would be away. But he always came back, and that was what Mum and I counted on.

I didn't have siblings because that's how busy Dad's always been. But 'busy' could also mean 'selfish' and selfish could turn to gone, forever. I was surprised he hadn't left us yet. Maybe he really did love my Mum, who knew? But he barely even visited her after the surgery. And I knew I might not see him until Mum could come home again, which, according to the doctors, would be by the end of this week.

Mum had always been religious. I was more like my dad, though. He was too busy to have religion. As a kid, I was dragged to church and forced to sing shit I didn't understand, and Mum would always tell me as she tucked me into bed that God loves me. Well, God, how do you love me now, huh?

The day Mum was diagnosed, we were having breakfast. I was going to go to school that day, because of that presentation in physics. I had worked hard on it. Well, sort of. I didn't know what it was, but I actually tried. I did my part, and I thought I did a pretty good job. Working with Mariam was...fun. Fun for me, anyway. She kept glaring at me, but to be honest, I loved when she got angry. It was hilarious. She was entertaining, even if she was a Muslim.

Anyway, that morning, at breakfast, Mum started coughing, like really hard. She didn't have a cold or anything, so I knew it couldn't be that. But her coughs sounded deep, and raspy, and I remembered her eyes which were wide and watery as she bent over the sink, coughing so hard I thought her lungs would spill out of her mouth. And that's when I saw the blood, sprayed on the silver sink. She ran the water, attempting to hide it, but I stood up before she could, placing a hand on her back. Her breaths were ragged, and she hunched over the sink, the water running and the sound of her muted sobs filling the kitchen air. Dad was at work, so he didn't find out until we were at the hospital. So it was up to me to take care of her. It was always up to me.