Harry
The tires of my bicycle rolled faster and faster, synchronized with the motion of my feet. I watched with tired eyes as the narrow wheel crushed every red, orange, or yellow leaf (sadly I couldn't determine the color, for it was far too dark) that was unfortunate enough to lie it's path. Looking back, the institution grew smaller and smaller, until it was just a tiny spec surround by the blackness of the night sky; delicately dusted with sprinkles of twinkling stars. I was alone for the most part, except for the minority of cars that whizzed by from time to time.
And I liked it that way. I liked being alone. I didn't need to impress anyone, pretend to be something I'm clearly not, or just simply be pressured with the presence of other people. I don't mean that I'm antisocial or anything, I'm just saying that I prefer to be alone. Of course, being constantly surrounded by large groups of mentally unstable patients doesn't help with that, but... hey, it's a paid internship, so I do whatever I can do to raise money. Currently, I'm juggling four jobs, and yet... I barely make minimum wage.
But life goes on, and if you don't make money, then tough luck. You don't like your job? Deal with it. Have to life on the streets, basically scraping off of other, slightly more fortunate people's loose change? You have to manage.
The world is cold, cruel place, and anyone who thinks otherwise is either a fool, or wanted dead for living such a high, isolated life.
My mum says I should be thankful. Thankful that I have food on my plate, and a sheltering roof above my head. Frankly, and rather selfishly, I'm not.
I'm not grateful that I have to waste my life slaving the day away, while others get paid for doing absolutely nothing. I don't mean to sound arrogant, I just think it isn't fair. I've always wanted to do something with my life, something memorable, something worth repeating, yet.. I'm stuck here; working sixteen out of the eighteen hours of my wake.
With a deep and heavy sigh, I pushed down the metal kick stand of my bike, the scratching of the rust hurting my ears. It was very dark out, but luckily the grocery store was still open... not like I was expecting it to be closed anyways.
Above the automatic doorway, was a massive sign, illuminated in cursive, red letters. "Smith's" it read, with a smaller, more dull sign to the left sincerely promising, "a better, and more family friendly shopping experience."
I had absolutely no idea of what that cheesy slogan was supposed to mean. Although, I suppose it would be a bit more humorous, as well as more accurate if it said: "Exceptionally average!" because that's all it was. Just like any other normal grocery store.
I walked through the sliding, black double doors, while a cool rush of air originating from strange machine above, engulfed me. My feet carried me almost automatically to the right side of the store, where I picked up a bouquet of assorted, seemingly random flowers, and the cheapest, mylar balloon I could find. It was light pink, and shaped like a heart, the shiny paper reflecting off the hard light. I proceeded to check out to pay for my items with an employee who looked like he'd rather jump off the empire state building than scan my casual gifts.
I then left the place as abruptly as I arrived, not wanting to waste anymore valuable time. My knuckles were white against the rubber handle bars, and the balloon was tied into a pathetic bow on the left handle. I begun to grow even more tired than I thought was humanly possible, which made me wonder what would happen if I just passed out on the sidewalk. My long, unruly hair danced in the wind. I had wanted a haircut for quite some time, but between all of my jobs and errands, I hadn't had the time or money to do so.
After approximately fifteen long minutes that stretched themselves out much further than they should, I found myself parked in front of my destination; sweaty and tired as hell.
I untied the off-white string from the handle bar, and carried the bouquet into the hospital.
"Anne." I told the nurse at the front desk. "Anne Twist." She nodded, and I couldn't help but notice the similarities between her and Beth, the same innocent gleam in her chestnut brown eyes, and the identical silky, ebony hair.
Beth's doppelganger proceeded to the light wooden door, opening it, and exposing the busy hallways of the hospital to the somewhat frantic civilians in the waiting room. "Room D11." She stated in a high, extremely annoying voice, which immediately made me stop making any more comparisons to her and my dear friend.
It was quite amusing to me how permanently that letter-number combination was etched into my mind, yet.. every time the nurse would direct me to the room, It seemed as if I would forget it. Just another known, and painful reminder of the crap life I live. However, this time, not only did I think of my mother's tragic disease, but also of Ashley.
Ashley has the exact same room number.
Well, maybe not exactly... her door has no metal plaque tacked into it, but it comes directly after D10. I had just assumed that the plaque had probably just fallen off, and no one had bothered to put it back up. Although with closer examination, I noticed there was no hole indented in the door, no proof showing that there ever was a screw to hold the previous plaque in place.
Which meant that the door was never intended to hold a sign.
Maybe it was that that sparked my endless curiosity, which seemed to grow larger every second I wasn't given a precise answer. Or maybe it was the fact that it one of the only doors that required a key card. Maybe it was the horrific, yet absolutely, terrifyingly beautiful screams to be heard through the hallow woodwork.
I guess I had been thinking so deeply, I hadn't thought for a second about where I was walking as if this moment. Luckily, my feet were basically trained to find their own way to room D11, they led me, as well as the rosy balloon, and the bouquet of wild flowers exactly there.
I sighed for for what seemed like the millionth time, just a side-effect of the overwhelming doses of stress I take every day. I clutched the shiny, metal door handle while noticing how perfectly it fit within the palm of my large hand.
I entered the hospital room, quietly and slowly. Everything was in the exact same place as they were in the day before. The miniature television mounted in the corner of the small room blarred with a show I had assumed to be Sherlock due to how often my mum raves about Benedict Cumberbatch and him and I being identical twins. I had never seen the show anywhere but but playing non-stop in my mum's hospital room.
The glow of the TV reflected upon the pale green, cushioned chairs beneath it, directly across from the white hospital bed.
And there she was.
Lying peacefully on the bed was my mum, covered in a thick, light green duvet, and surrounded by mountains of stainless white pillows. Her jade eyes danced with happiness almost matching the exact color of the blanket, she looked so content staring directly at the moving characters boxed within the television set. Her chestnut brown hair was spraled out in waves, resting on the bedding underneath her. She hadn't even noticed my presence while she was so immersed in the company or Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, causing me to chuckle.
My own laughter rang throughout the crampt room, which caught my mum's attention.
"Harry!" She squealed, sounding like a small child on Christmas morning. I don't know why she was always so happy to see me after all. I came here every day, directly after I finished my work at the institution, yet she seemed so surprised when I arrived. Like she wasn't expecting me to come, or like it was the last time she would ever see me. I shake the thought out of head quickly, scolding myself for even thinking of such a thing.
"Hello mum." I laughed, I could almost feel the happiness that radiated off of her. It was contagious, really. It swallowed me whole, and I was absolutely ecstatic that it did.
I walked over the the side of the bed, handing her the balloon and flowers casually.
"Oh Harry!" She gasped. "You didn't have to! You are such a sweetheart!" She studied each flower carefully in the bouquet, as if they were all precious gems, not a cheap bundle of plants worth nothing more than £3.05, plus tax.
My mum was quite the actress, either that or she was just overly excited about receiving the same gifts everyday for about two and a half years. Let's just say I wasn't the most creative person...
Giggling happily, she took the heart-shaped balloon and rubbed it furiously against my head, causing my dark brown curls to stick to the mylar material.
My mum laughed so hard that the machine next to her began to beep faster and more wildly, indicating her quickened heart rate.
"Oh, Benedict, calm down!" She reprimanded the machine.
It will always be a mystery to me as to why she should name her cardiac monitor. Not to mention that she named it after her favorite actor from her favorite show, which predictably... was Sherlock.
"Benedict Cumberbatch will always have a special place in my heart, just as Benedict here," she gestured to the inanimate object with an IV infested hand, "has a place in mine."
I wanted to explain to her that: 1.) she is absolutely insane to think that her cardio monitor has any relations to the widely popular actor, 2.) technically the machine does not have a place in her heart, it just measures her heart rate, and 3.) that I'm fairly certain Benedict Cumberbatch has no idea that she even exists. Although, I just simply nodded, silently agreeing to her false comment; only a heartless soul would point out those facts.
That's my mum, basically. An eight year old child trapped in a forty eight year old body, unfortunate enough to be diagnosed with a very early stage of breast cancer. Luckily, she had found out early on, so treatment was still available for her. Unfortunately, neither of us had the money to pay for this treatment, and my step father was too much of an arrogant bastard to do so.
My mum placed the gifts next to her white bed, on top of a large pile of more inexpensive gifts I had given her the many days prior. Such as half inflated, and half deflated balloons, various, seemingly random stuffed animals, cards, empty boxes of chocolate, and small keychains.
I love her so much, I loved spending time with her. Just the two of us, without the unneeded (and frankly, unwanted) company of my step fa-
"Anne!" A deep voice called from the opposite end of the room, just as he stepped right past the wooden door.
I guess I had spoken too soon.
"Hello love," he said to my mum, as he leaned down and moved several IV tubes out of the way to kiss her.
"Hey," she replied sweetly, her soft voice ringing in my ears.
"Hello Harry," he pivoted towards my direction.
He inched closer to me, unsure of whether to give me a hug or shake my hand, given the fact that he knows that I absolutely despise him. He smelled of cigarette smoke which bothered me than it should, considering the aroma was so pungent. I could practically feel his emerald eyes burning holes in my skin, awaiting a response.
"Matthew." I said, not even bothering to look him in the eye. His name tasted like poison upon my tongue, and it burned my lips every time I spoke it.
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A/N: Thanks for reading, I have not decided who is going to play Matthew Twist yet... but, any suggestions? Huge thank you goes out to @obeyireland for making a soundtrack for my book! Sorry for all the errors, this chapter was unedited. Also, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY DEAR HARRY, WE ALL LOVE YOU!
DON'T FORGET TO VOTE AND COMMENT!
Love, Isabel