I hate the smell of hospitals. I always will. Ever since I was first diagnosed here when I was just eight, especially to the sound of the monitor, it's like it's reminding me how anytime anyone would leave me, which weakens me everytime. I look at my mother, then her hand needled with the IV therapy. "I love you, mother." I beamed at her closed eyes. I scan her face one last time, pale, bland, and no white perfect pearls to see. I see a peaceful but qualmy state of her, for the first time. The quietness of the ambiance is suffocating. It scares me the most. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." I repeat the words, it stings as it goes on. The very last thing I want to do is to be next to her, and hold her hand. My breath starts to hitch, and in no more than five seconds, darkness swallowed me in.
YOU ARE READING
Bare
RandomA book of flash fictions. From the author's vision, dreams, imagination, desires, and archive.
