Mother - Chapter 2.1

Trigger warning: if you are upset by death scenes then you might want to skip this.

2

I’ve never struggled with the concept of death. People die and cease to be. I’m fine with that.

Some people hold on to the notion of an afterlife, a special place for their relative’s soul to find peace and watch over the living. It’s a nice idea, just one that never fit inside my head, like trying to force a puzzle piece in with a hammer.

I’m not trying to sound wise beyond my thirteen years, or like some edgy, all-knowing sage. I just don’t dwell on things that are outside my comprehension. So the idea that nothing happens after death, while still unprovable, is the easiest explanation for me to swallow. It’s the only answer I can push to the back of my mind and never give a second thought.

But as my mother withers before my eyes, everything changes.

She’s minutes from passing. Father yanked us out of school and took us right home. Conrad completely went to pieces—too young to see this anyway, so Father carried him to his bedroom. There’s several walls between us but I can still hear him hollering the roof down.

That leaves me. Helpless. Watching her die.

And just like that, the very thought that my mother will simply cease to exist can no longer occupy space in my mind. It kills me to betray my own logic. Especially for something as futile as my emotions. But it hurts even more to look into her eyes and think it’s for the last time. I can’t believe that any more than I can believe the sun will set below the horizon and never return again.

There has to be more for her.

She turns her head so stiffly that I’m surprised I don’t hear a creak. Her eyes are dry, grey. Waxy skin tight to the bones. Long blonde hair spilling over the most luxurious bedding that money can offer. Because that’s all we can do. Make her comfortable. The doctors let us take her home when they realised there was no saving her. As far as I know, they fail to understand her condition, only that her body is deteriorating and nothing can be done. Except keep her pain-free and be there for her.

But what do I say? That I’ll miss her? Will she ask me to look after Conrad? The seconds are rushing by. This is my final chance to comfort the woman who brought me into the world and I can’t think of anything useful to tell her.

“I love you.”

The words come out too fast, and I’m not sure she hears them. I don’t even remember deciding to say them. But the sentiment seems appropriate. At least, better than standing there with a blank expression.

Her chapped lips open, stretch into a smile. “If only I’d known it would take my death for you to tell me that . . . I would’ve kicked the bucket years ago.”

I grin, and for a second we stay like that, beaming at each other. I want to hit pause on the moment but I can already feel it slipping away, reality creeping back into the frame. I realise there’s a pit of truth inside her joke. My stomach drops. The smile slides off my face.

I’ve never told my mother that I love her until now, and I cannot for the life of me understand why.

She must notice my change of expression, because she shakes her head. “No, Henrik. Never feel guilty for who you are.”

“But I mean it,” I say, hoping she believes me.

She flips her hand over, tilts her palm toward me. I sit on the bed, try not to jolt her, take her hand.

“I wish there’s something I can do,” I say. I turn my face away from her. Not because I’m crying, but because I’m not. People are expected to bawl their eyes out in a situation like this, but I’ve never been able to cry like that. Not unless I really hurt myself, but that doesn’t count.

She tugs on my hand, forcing me to return my gaze.

“This is out of your control.”

There’s something strange about her tone. It wavers too much, like she doesn’t believe the words she’s saying. Or maybe I’ve reached the lowest depths of desperation and my mind is fumbling for a solution.

Either way.

Hope.

“If there’s anything I can do,” I say, the words rushing out, one after the other, racing against the clock. “Tell me now. Whatever it is. I’ll do it.”

Her eyes are wide as she stares into mine. Calculating. Her mouth opens, starts to form a word.

But her hand relaxes.

Falls to her side.

I want to scream for Father, but I can’t make a sound.

Mother’s eyes close . . .

And then fly open once again. Wild. Piercing. She grabs my forearm so tight I think it might break. I feel her fingernails scrape into my skin.

A scream tears from my throat and rattles on, unending. I can see her lips moving, saying something, but her words are drowned by my yelling.

A flash of blue explodes from her hand, illuminating the room with an azure glow. A white-hot burning sears my skin and I scream harder than ever, trying to yank my arm out of her grasp. The pain is so bad that I can’t feel anything but the pain. I have no idea where my body begins or ends.

Then everything stops. Her eyes close. Her body goes limp. The pain fades. My scream falters because I’ve run out of air.

The only thing that remains is the blue. The blue that shot from Mother’s palm. It’s everywhere. Staining the walls, her bed, her lifeless face. But it’s not coming from her hand anymore.

I look down at my inner forearm, at the five strange symbols now imprinted into my skin in a vertical line.

The light shining from them burns my eyes, but I cannot look away.