oblivion

"You ready?" Their voice was calm and caring, despite only saying two words.

"Yes." I told them again, sounding much more like myself after having cleared my throat.

"You know I'm with you every step of the way," he told me, but I didn't want him to be, I want to be alone, without somebody— whether it on purpose or not, tell me how I should feel. "You have a train to catch in twenty-seven minutes."

"It will be late." I tell him as I pour the remainder of my coffee into the sink and left the cup unwashed too.

I took myself though the house, the cold house, despite the warmth of the sun spilling through the windows and onto the hardwood floor, it was and always will be the cold house.

Past Luke's bedroom, to the bathroom where I coat my toothbrush in minty paste and let it sit in my mouth. "Are you listening?"

"Yes." I lied.

"The trains aren't always late, and you'll be sorry if you miss it and therefore miss this." He tells me again. I want somebody or something to make me feel sorry. Just so I could feel something.

"Whatever." I tell him through the bubbling, growing toothpaste in my mouth. "See you." I tell him, hanging up and dropping my phone onto the window ledge. I spat out everything in my mouth, blood circulating around the spit, I guess now my gums bleed because of how malnourished I am.

I pulled my tangled hair into a bun at the nape of my neck, pulled over my legs a pair of black jeans and a thick baby blue jumper over my head and let it rest on my shoulders and cover the rest of my torso and arms.

I picked my phone up that was still in the bathroom and went to the front door, the coats and shoes were hung up, where they had always been since we moved in.

I ordered an Uber on my phone as I pulled black trainers over my feet and a black leather jacket over the soft fabric of my jumper.

Four minutes later and the house has been secured and I'm in the back of the taxi. I refuse to make eye contact with the driver, I don't even say my name and just confirm with him that my destination is the train-station.

Too many people in the town know my name and my face because of the trial. They send me sad eyes and sympathetic smiles every time I leave my abode. And I hated them. They should not get to know my story, my Lukes story. They are strangers to me and to me, strangers should not have the privilege of knowing about my sons death before me.

I boarded the train, which, by the way, was eight minutes late. If this was eighteen months ago I would of smirked with smugness but now I just boarded, silently, and covering my eyes with thick sunglasses, today was not one where I wanted to be observed.

"Good," Mark told me, "you don't have makeup on." He points out as I take off the sunglasses in the private room of the courts. The room was so sticky I felt sick. The heating was on full, just like it always was at seven in the morning.

My hands began to tremble, the reason why Mark pointed out to me that I didn't have makeup on was to remind me that I shouldn't ever wear it to the trial. A mother who has lost their son does not care about her appearance, despite knowing she will be on television and that the nation will be watching.
And so, I should not wear makeup or even brush my hair in order to create this illusion, to which, when the crime first happened and it was the first date of the long trial I retorted in; "I'm not going to purposefully look worse to heighten the respect of the public. I truly am a mother who has lost her child. Why should people get to decide for me how sad I really am because I may or may not wear makeup?"