𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞 | 𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐞

Chapter 2

Finn

Dying people have a distinct smell to them. Even people who could have months to go. It's an almost old smell that clings to their skin. Which is gross as hell, but when it's someone you love, you don't think about how disgusting it is, but how much it fucking sucks.

The second I walk into the apartment, the scent hits me. I'm not sure whether to breathe through my nose and risk catching another whiff or through my mouth and puke, which makes me about the biggest pussy on the planet. If she can take going through it, I should be able to visit.

"Finn? Is that you?"

Her voice sounds happy despite what she's going through. Does she smell the death like I do? Does it make her nauseous or is she immune? I'm such a prick.

"Of course it is, Mom. You expecting some other gorgeous, young guy to show up?"

I round the corner into her living room. The curtains are open in the big window on the wall. She's always loved sunshine. I wonder what the hell there is to be so sun-shiny about.
Mom laughs as she's sitting in her old-tattered wheelchair. The robe I bought her for Christmas like eight years ago is around her shoulders. It has holes in it. The stupid thing needed to be thrown away a long time ago, but she doesn't throw anything away. When you don't have much, you take care of the stuff you do have.

I lean forward and kiss her forehead. I feel like a dick because I have to hold my breath to do it. She's not wearing a hat today and all that's left of her hair is fuzz.

"What's up?"

Dust kicks up when I fall into the chair beside her.

"Not much. How are you today?"

Her voice cracks and she starts to cough. Damn if I don't want to plug my ears so I don't have to hear it. Yeah. What a good son I am. She'd do anything for me, but I can hardly stand looking at her.

"How are you feelin'?" It's a much more important question than anything about me.

Her hair used to be black and curly. I remember people saying it looked like the night. Maybe that's why she likes the curtains open so much. To see the light. Winter will be hard. She probably won't be here...

"I feel great."

Mom crosses her arms.

I roll my eyes. Yeah. How great can she feel? She's dying. The docs say it could be a week, could be three months. You never can tell with this stuff. That's a shitty answer if you ask me. They're doctors. Aren't they supposed to know that? If they can tell you you're going to die, they should be able to narrow it down a little better.

"Mom..."

"Finn," she throws back at me, a smile tilting her lips.

"Tell me about school. How are your classes?"

Shitty. I hate them. They're not nearly as important as what's going on with you.

"They're cool. It's only been a couple weeks."

Every year it's the same. It's all she cares about and all she talks about and every time I feel like I want to explode. I shouldn't be worried about grades. I should be taking care of her—doing whatever the hell it takes to take care of her. It's why I do the things I do.

Mom gives me another smile, her eyes a mixture of joy and pain. That look has the power to eat me up inside, like it burns through me the same way the cancer is burning through her body, destroying everything in sight. She touches my leg. Jesus, her fingers are thin.