Sorry for the break. Es was bothering Aar and Bee (don't worry; I’ll introduce them later), and I had to intervene. She doesn’t seem to get along well with them. I don’t even know what she's doing on the plane, she can fly on her own. Reasons, I guess.
Whatever. So yes, I was chilling at my Uncle’s, writing a whimsical song in my head which I’m not going to share, lest I embarrass myself.
What? I pledged I’ll tell you everything? Ah, well. Screw it. Fine.
I don’t even remember it that well, but I think it went something like:
“”I AM AN IDIOT
I AM A POOCH
I FEEL LIKE A HERIOT
WHO OWES THE WIND A SMOOCH””
No need to tell me how bad it sucks. It’s just . . . like, you know. When you’re looking at random twigs and the soil and the air and they seem to form some irrational sort of pattern in your mind – you start seeing faces that don’t exist – hearing noises never uttered – and you go to full idiosyncratic mode - that's what happened to me.
So don’t hold it against me. I'm actually a pretty great poet. In future my works will be a shining example of the pristine olden life. (I’ll probably be alive then, too.)
Whatever, basically, I was lost in some non-existent realm of fantasy, right? To escape the boredom of this world that wouldn’t even let me have a bout of blood . . . Where were we again?
Right. It was Uncle who jerked me out of my shallowly deep reverie.
‘Come with me,' he said in his usual bold voice. ‘It’s your mother.’
Just the way he said it, I followed him – or, rather, he pulled me hastily by the collar; he's a belligerent man, that one – to his long company car. I kept pestering him – what happened, Uncle? What is it? He didn’t say a word. After a while I gave up and we both sat in silence as the driver drove on rapidly, likely on Uncle's instructions.
Uncle himself doesn’t like to drive. It's tough for him, what with only one arm and all.
Oh, did I forget to tell you?
My Uncle’s left arm had been amputated at a very young age due to thingies in his circulatory system. At least that’s all I knew then.
He refuses to wear a prosthetic arm, too. No one really knows why, he's rich as Bruce Wayne (fans of The Dark Knight just rejoiced).
Anyhow, I was surprised to find our destination to be a hospital. It's your mother, Uncle had said. He was even sweating profusely.
And suddenly it dawned on me.
I knew what I would see before I saw it.
My Mum was in the O.T. Undergoing her second chemotherapy.
Leukemia. Almost inoperable.
The cancer had spread to her brain, too. Sever amnesia and migrain. Swelling in limbs that I had somehow been ignoring this whole while. So in her critical days, she probably won't even remember me?
I couldn’t help but claw my eyes out. I yelled at my Dad, at my Uncle, at the passing nurses and doctors and even patients. Why didn’t they tell me before?
And I remembered all those time she had complained about hair fall and headaches and those blotches on her skin near her wrists and that fainting and that time when she . . .
‘It was your mother's choice,' my Uncle explained later, when I had calmed down a bit (Dad won’t even meet my eye.). ‘She told us not to tell you. But it got serious and . . . we had to . . . We're sorry, Mar. I am sorry.’
I stormed away, to go and sob in peace.
How could I forgive them?
I couldn’t. I still haven’t.
YOU ARE READING
Sort of Dead
Humor**This book features short, fun, snappy chapters** **Perfectly fine as a standalone** [Caution: may pack a couple of gutpunches.] "First things first: this is the story of how I die. Over and over again." __________________________________ Marra is...
