Tomorrow Will Be Kinder (Watty Awards 2012)

IV: Ablaze

Mum’s face faltered, her steps stuttered to a stop. And before we knew what was happening, she was falling, the bowl crashing onto the grounding with a resounding clack. Her body landed on the ground awkwardly, her arms twitching uncontrollably as she closed her eyes in horror. 

__ __ __ __ __

The next few days flashed by in silence. 

It turns out that my mother had cancer. The doctors quickly took her in for tests and examinations, but there was nothing else they could do; the cancer was spreading too quickly. 

On the fifteenth day of her being in the hospital, the doctors pulled my father and I aside. 

“Your wife and mother is growing weaker at an extremely fast rate,” he murmured. “I’m sorry, but I think you should contact any relatives that she has, perhaps –”

“No!” I exclaimed. “She is not going to die! She’s not! Don’t say things like that!”

“Son,” my father placed a hand on my shoulder. “Luke, I’m so sorry.”

My jaw wobbled but I clamped my teeth together. 

“There really is no hope?” I whispered, eyes on the ground. 

The doctor patted my shoulder. “Call her relatives.”

Holding in a whimper, I watched him walk away as my father put his arm around my shoulders. 

“Come on,” he whispered, leading me into my mother’s hospital room. 

It was bare. Stark white was the only thing in this small room. And there, in the middle, was my mother. 

She was the thinnest I’d ever seen her. She was sprawled out flat along a small bed, her thick, blonde hair stuck to her face and the bland pillow beneath it. Her limbs were sticks under the shady hospital gown she wore, and her cheekbones were more prominent than ever. 

“Hey, Mum,” I tried to smile. 

Her lips lifted half-heartedly. “Hey sweetie.”

I paused. What was I meant to say? You see things like this in movies all the time, but you never think it will happen to you. 

So I did the only thing I could. 

I held my mother’s hand and cried. 

__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __

Two days later, my mother died. 

My father tried to hold on, he really did. He managed to stay sane for almost a year. But after that mark, instead of getting better, he just got worse. 

My father took his own life the day after my thirteenth birthday. Even at the funeral, I didn’t cry. You would have thought I would, seeing how I was so young, but to be honest? My father was already dead. He’d died the day that my mother had. 

But he wasn’t a bad father. He had put everything he owned into a trust fund for me, and when I turn twenty-one, I get everything. 

Even when he was dead, he would still look out for me. 

Not too long after the funeral, I was sent to my first foster home. I didn’t do very well in the system; I was too quiet, too shy for anyone to properly get to know me. I was bullied daily, but I sucked it up, because those kids didn’t know the full story. 

And then, when I entered my sixth home, I fell in love. 

It was just after my fourteenth birthday. The family I was fostered with – the Jenners – had a thirteen-year-old daughter. Her name was Laney, and she was beautiful.