who wants to read my fanfiction for the math signs plus and minus
#jointhemathfandomtoday
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I sit by my mother's hospital bed, holding my hands on my lap and watching her. She's asleep right now, so me watching her sounds a bit creepy, but I can't help it. I want to have at least a little bit of memories of her before she died. Two years ago, she got out of an abusive relationship. Unfortunately, my memoris with her usually come from that time. She met my own father later, but he left her. My memories are include her weeping or crying late at night.
I want to fix that.
Her eyes open slowly, fluttering like a hummingbird in the sky. Except this hummingbird is sick and is about to die. And the hummingbird's son is broken.
Broken.
"Alex." My mother croaks. She's been sounding a lot like an elder lately, although she's still in her mid-life.
"Mama, how are you feeling?" I ask softly, reaching for her hand. When my hand gets there, I hold it. I don't want to let go. I never want to let go. A tear (i almost wrote tree) falls down my face, landing on my arm. It slides down my arm, but stops halfway.
She doesn't answer my question, which I don't care about.
I'm scared to know the answer.
A nurse comes in, telling me something about her sickness. I filter it out, because her face is sad. I know my mother is dying, I don't need a daily update on the same solution every day of the year. After the nurse is done talking, I walk out in a daze.
I realize I don't know what to do.
I'm young, still in high school. I don't have a father, although I do have a brother. He's in college at the moment.
Nurses and doctors alike rush past me. Their faces either display a joyful look or disappointed look. I know what that look looks like. I see it practically every day now. I could probably draw it perfectly if someone asked me. Maybe my work could go into an art gallery and I could get payed a high price for it.
Maybe.
I realize I have no buisness standing in the halls of a hospital like a creep, so I walk outside. The hospital is rural, but not too rural. From here, I can see New York City. You know what else is near the hospital?
Trees.
Tall, large trees.
I'm not even thinking about killing myself, I just have a sudden urge to climb a tree. I'm actually kind of athletic, even if I don't really try to be. I run myself at the first tree I see, climbing onto the first branch. I throw my feet onto it, pulling the rest of my body up seconds later. I'm hugging the tree like how I used to hug my mother when I had nightmares as a child.
Ah, there it is.
A good memory with my mother.
I climb to the second branch and realize I'm more than ten feet in the air. I keep climbing anyway, making it all the way to the twenty feet. I can see through the window into my mother's hospital room. The nurse is stabbing her with a needle. I look away.
Looking away forces me to hug the trees practically backwards.
That's my first mistake.
My second mistake happens when I see a cute guy on the sidewalk. He's on his phone, texting someone. I recognize him immediately; Thomas Jefferson. I lose my footing.
That's my second mistake.
It's also my last mistake, because I stumble down the tree, right onto the floor.
Thomas jumps up, surprised to see me. Obviously. I just fell from a tree, god. I began to get up, feeling my face red. But when I try to move my left arm, a sudden searing pain shoots through my arm.
"Ah! Jesus Christ!" I scream, holding my left arm with my right.
"Are you okay?" Thomas asks, pulling me up by my right. I can't help it, but I start to cry. I know it's such a childish thing to do, but I can't move my left arm. It's not even numb either, it's all twisted the wrong way and the pain doesn't stop.
"I-I think I broke m-my arm." I mumble, although I'm not actually sure.
He believes me though.
I don't really think much as he pulls me (by the right arm) into the hospital. They take me to the ER, where some doctor or nurse wraps up my arm with a cast.
My arm still hurts when the person is done and I don't want to try to move it.
So I don't.
The person helps us out of the room, helping the next patient.
"Thanks." I mumble to Thomas, admiring my cast.
"Oh, of course," He chuckles and looks at my cast, "Can I sign it?"
I almost laugh, because I remember I have a sharpie in my back pocket. I hold it out to him.
"Yeah, sure."
He takes my cast, kneels down, and signs the entire front side.
Oh, ok.
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THE BOOKSTORE HAD AN ENTIRE SECTION DEDICATED TO DEH AND IM SCREAMING