Tree

Primarily Nervous

It was the first day of primary school, and my nerves were skyrocketing. What if I didn’t make any friends? What if I don’t like my teacher? At the same time I was ecstatic, and with my bag larger than I, I ran ahead of my teary mum. When the class finally started I didn’t know anyone. My knees were weak, and my lips trembled, but I tried to be brave. I scanned the crowd, looking for someone to help me feel less lonely. When my eyes fell on a certain pair of green glasses my face smiled of its own accord.

He gave a start when I sidled up beside him, and slipped my hand into his. It was as warm as last time, and together we faced the whole day, dodged all of the teacher’s snide remarks she didn’t think we could understand, kept each other company at play and lunch, and traded stories. We promised each other our picture storybooks, and when it was finally time to leave I’d forgotten all about being homesick. Mum hadn’t though, and she swept me up in a big hug, before setting me down. As we drove off I saw him walking by himself. I waved but I don’t think he saw. When I finally got home I ran straight to the tree, for it could be called that now. In the past year it had strengthened, and turned a half green half brown. I poured my heart out to it, telling it about every part of my day, and in particular the strange boy with the glasses, whose name was Callum. He, I talked about especially.

The needles piercing the man’s skin hurt Cherrie’s eyes to look at, seeming to be stabbing her man, the person who meant more to her than life itself. She stroked his skin calmly. She no longer resorted to thinking about what could happen. Her positive spin on life was shining through, or maybe it was her denial that anything was going to happen. She was more cheery now, and even greeted the nurses, letting her eyes flicker away for almost a full second. The flowers overflowed in the room, brightening the mood even more, and the paleness of the skin left clamminess that didn’t seem to fit. His hands were no longer warm, and felt strange in Cherrie’s. She never let go though, and even held on in her sleep, not that she was getting much. Her fatigue was running her down, and her eyes looked like they’d sunk into her head. She refused to sleep more than her body thought was necessary.

I sat impatiently, with blood soaking through my mouth, my knees bouncing. There was yet a sound to pierce the quiet of the morning, and no excuse for my mother to be up yet. I contemplated giving her one.

My hand was creating moisture because it was pressed against itself so tightly, and the tooth prickled my hand. I rushed into the kitchen before I could change my mind, and “accidently” knocked a fork off the bench. She waited, and heard a groan, before a yell.

“What the fuck was that? If there is anything broken I swear to God I am going to fucking hurt somebody,” screamed the thick tone of my mother.

With joy I pranced into her room, my hand outstretched toward her, before coming to a halt when I saw the outline of another body in her bed too.

My face froze, as did hers when she saw me in her room.

She saw my eyes uncertainly flicker over to the immobile body.

“Uh, sweetie, darling, don’t worry, um, it doesn’t matter if it’s broken, um, go make yourself some breakfast and go watch cartoons. Love you honey?” I kept still, still trying to comprehend the situation.

“You don’t let me eat in the lounge room,” I stuttered.

“Uh, it’s a special treat, okay? Just, go, do something.” I retreated, unable to clear my head of the twisted limbs of my life.

Cherrie woke from her slumber. She groaned when she realised she’d woken up again. It was the only time her head wasn’t full of crazy thoughts. Then she mentally kicked herself. She should be waiting every second shouldn’t she? She shouldn’t have the luxury of life while these poor people were stuck, never-endingly in a useless coma. It wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fair.