Son of Lazarus

Chapter 2: The Woman in Black

October 12th, 2038
11:12 a.m.

   I remember hearing the doctor say that the sleep aids he prescribed me should help. They don't work anymore and haven't for a while. Every night when I close my eyes, they still come to torment me, and they never go away. For the longest time, mom was the only one who had been able to quiet them.
   She would always hold me close and tell me that everything was going to be all right; that I would be all right. Then the day my father feared so much came; the day she promised would never come.
   It was just after a particularly vivid, particularly bad nightmare I had just woken up from. I remember her coming into my room and sitting on my bed, her arms pulling me in close while I cried. I remember hearing her hum my lullaby; remember her laying down beside me.
   "Rest now, my son," she told me, her voice soft and gentle, like a wind chime blowing gently in the wind. "I'll be right here when you wake up."
   It had been a promise. I remember snuggling down into her embrace so deep that I had finally allowed sleep's black curtains to drop around my body one more time. I remember the steady sound of her heartbeat ringing in my ears as I fell asleep.

   Mom had remained in my bed with me all night, as she had promised. But when I woke, she was cold to the touch and her arm felt unusually heavy against my back. "Mamma?" My voice had been lined with fear and confusion. I was unable to identify why she wasn't moving.
   "Mamma?" I called out again, my voice rising in volume. I remember pressing my hands into her shoulder. I was shaking her and her body was rocking with my action like a ragdoll. She still hadn't moved.
   I can still feel the sting of tears as they rolled down my cheeks. "Mamma!" My cry had become a scream that brought my father racing down the hallway. I remember him bursting in through the door, its mechanics having little time to register that he had been there.
   I remember feeling his eyes on my back as I lay across my mother's body, crying. And I can still feel his hands pressing against my back as I looked up at him, tears blinding me. "She's not getting up, daddy." They were words choked passed my swollen throat, my voice coming out hoarse.
   I shifted my gaze from my father's face to my mother's. "Why isn't she getting up?" I was a child with no concept of death or loss. I was never taught about it; never had it explained to me. Yet the expression on my father's face was sad and heartbroken.
   All he said to me was "Come here." I flinched away from him when he tried to remove me from my mom. I didn't want to leave her. "Tristan, honey. Come here." His voice was filled to the brim with sadness and heartache. Sharing in his feelings, I forced myself away from my mom and crawled across the bed to throw myself into my father's arms.

   I remember feeling warm and secure in his embrace. It was calming in a way. I could feel him shifting forward and twisted my head to see him place two fingers against her neck. His arms trembled as he held me.
   When he spoke, his voice was unusually quiet and it was shaking in pain. "Mommy's gone..."
   "No," I whispered under my breath. My voice didn't remain soft for long. I can still hear my voice rising into a high-pitched wail as I screamed out: "No, no, no! Mamma!!!!"

********

   A sharp SNAP broke him out of his thoughts. He shot upright in his chair, his black hair bouncing as he moved. A ruler came into view soon after, one end resting against the desk in front of him while the other end was being clutched in a wrinkly, thin hand.
   "Pay attention, Mister Cummings!" His head rose high enough for him to stare into the serious green eyes of his teacher. The man had bags upon bags resting under his eyes, wrinkles lined his forehead and surrounded his down-turned mouth.
   The man's hair was turned silver by age and a thick, handlebar mustache rested across his top lip. "Or you'll find yourself in the Principle's office again."
   "Sorry, Mister Whittaker," Tristan said, swallowing back a rise of saliva. He dropped his gaze to the book that was laying open in front of him and quickly flipped through it until the page matched the number on the board.
   "Humph." The old man grunted, a hand adjusting the thin, wire glasses that were resting on the bridge of his nose. He raised the ruler until the other end was resting against his open palm and addressed the rest of the class.
   As he passed Tristan by, a sigh of relief escaped his throat. At least he'd gotten a much better reaction from Whittaker this year. He could feel a ghosting of pain running across his knuckles and shook his head. He didn't want to repeat that anytime soon.