When the Lights Go Out {complete first draft}

Day Four - Life Has a Funny Way of Messing Up Life

                  I realised, as I’d grown up, I’d spent less time with the family and more time doing my own thing, and hanging out with my friends. My sister used to spend more time with me, too, and our mom only flittingly saw us as we walked into the house before we scampered upstairs, and our brother only saw us briefly as we walked passed him in the hallways of the high school, barely acknowledging him.

                  It’s a shame, but it’s common in families: children grow up, and want to spend time with their friends. They want to live a little before settling down with husbands and wives, having children and getting their own house. After all, they’re only young. Most of them have time to see their parents every weekend, and show off their children to the new grandparents. Not me. I’d never get to see my children, hold them for the first time, watch them grow. My mom would never help me find a name, or decorate a nursery. She’d never meet her grandchildren, she’d never see me get married, and she’d never see me again – not in real life.

                  I hoped Jowan grew up tall and strong, and found himself a good woman. I hoped Kendal and George had lovely children, one that got to spend lots of time with my mom to make up for all the lost time with us. I hoped, when I left this crazy, surreal world, I’d get to see my grandparents again. Hopefully there was still a plot near their burial where I could lay.

                  My mom turned off the hob and joined up, with her own food. She smiled at me before pouring herself a glass of orange juice. Beside her chair sat her brief case, so she could make a quick exit when the time came. Even though Kendal and I became lazy with our mornings, Jowan and my mom’s routines stayed the same without fail. They ate until a certain time, and then they left. Not staying a minute late for nothing.

                  “That was lovely,” Vincent said, pushing away his plate. “Thank you, Rose.”

                  “Good.” My mother replied, pushing her hair out of her face. She then turned to me. “I couldn’t get the whole day off,” she started, “but I have got the afternoon off. I do need to go back in afterwards to finish off some paperwork but Paul doesn’t mind. He’s a good boss.”

                  “Thanks mom,” I said, bashfully lowering my head as I finished my breakfast. If things had been different the day I died, and I’d gone to breakfast, I would have known that she had taken time off work to come and see me, and maybe I would have cared more about going. Still, I’d suffered my punishment for not caring, already. Although I’m sure I’d be punished again. Life was being cruel to me. “But you really don’t have to come, you know. I understand.”

                  “Nonsense,” she replied, sounding hurt. “This is important to you – a very important race, I know – and I want to be there for it. I have to be there for it, Marisol. I want to watch you.”

                  “Thanks,” I said, picking at the crust of my toast. My mother had always been persistent, always been fierce. She hadn’t cried when dad left her with three children – sure, it was her own fault, but she still had to look after us all alone – she’d just gotten on with it. She had a great job, she never made a mistake, and she was perfect for the role. She always managed to keep up with all our clubs, too, knowing who did what on which day, and asking us how it went. She was definitely a role model, and I hoped my sister could look up to her, and use her, as her own.

                  “Are you done with that?” Vincent asked, clearing the plates around the table.

                  “I’ll do that in a minute, honey,” my mom said, waving Vincent away from her plate.