All The Memories That We Made [Completed]

Goodbyes

Crash.

I hurry down the stairs, taking two at a time, my heart racing.

Bursting into the kitchen, my first thought is 'What happened?', yet one look at Mum's face tells me of all I should know.

Gasping from pain, her lips pursed, she is trying to wash off blood from her hand, that, despite her efforts, just won't wash away,

I squint at her for a moment until it actually gets me why that is happening. Taking a deep breathe to calm my thudding heart, I walk towards her, and then without uttering a single word, take a clean napkin and folding it around her hand, I press it hard and make her hold it in an upwards position.

The blood doesn't stop. Cursing under my breathe, I shake my head to stop the dizziness. 'Mum, Do something!', I say, though I don't know 'what' she should be doing.

Gently loosening my grip on her arm, she steps back and rushes into the bathroom, taking a towel with her. I just stand there, feeling like a scared kid who's seen blood for the first time in her life.

Kneeling down, I pick up the broken plates and dump them into the bin. Then, to avoid further drama, I roll my sleeves up and taking the liquid soap, start washing the dirty dishes.

All the while, my head is buzzing. Anger, like I have never experienced before, burst inside me. It's everywhere. Inside my head, inside my heart. I press my lips tight and try humming a childhood song to avoid thinking about it.

Yet, stubborn my mind is, the thoughts don't go away.

I'm tired. Drenched in sweat.
I've just had a long tiring day. Had a thirty minutes walk because I cant drive the damn car. Certainly, I wasn't hoping for this type of drama so early.

I almost want to stamp my feet and throw a tantrum like a kid and complain 'Why me?'.

Yet, the anger inside me isn't bubbling because of that. I like helping my Mum. It's not everyday that I get a chance to do something for her. But all the same, the anger stays.

Because I know. I know it so well, I'm a little surprised that I'm still struggling because of it. It's just a cut, she'll say.

She won't let me make fuss. She'll act all tough and try not to wince in fornt of me, as if it's a crime to do so.

I clench my teeth. I'm not tough. I'm not okay with her pretending. As far as I can tell, that is one reason why all my little problems have such a heavy weight on my heart. Why every little single thing hurts like a sharp knife.

Because my dear Mother doesn't let me make fuss of her. Because she pretends and I'm not allowed to find out about the dark side of her.

I heave an angry sigh and place the last cleaned cup on the rack. Drying my hand on the kitchen towel, I hum louder, trying to shut down my mind.

How wrong I am to think that that might ever work.

She comes back, wearing a clean shirt over baggy light blue pants. Her hair are tied up in a messy bun, and her face is still pale. Yet, the deep scar on her right hand is all that speaks of the pain she had gone through.

Deep red, it's five inches long, and very deep. Avoiding eye contract, she searches for something to cover it up.

After what seems like ages, she finally finds a thin piece of cloth, that doesn't look too weird, wrapped around her hand.

'You should be more careful Mum'.

She looks at me and I can tell, that a lot is going on her mind. However, she shrugs the thoughts away and smiles.