Monday, 5 August 2013

Nothing comes easily; fill this empty space. Nothing is like it was; turn my grief to grace.

There’s not a lot I can say about what comes next. It makes me cry. I hope it makes you cry, too. Does that make me sick?

Please leave a comment and let me know what you think…And if you can, I strongly recommend accompanying reading this with this song. It’s haunting, and I feel that it fits the scene perfectly. If this were a movie, this is the song that I imagine to be playing on the soundtrack right now.
 
This is the first few hundred words of Chapter Two...Dreams.

TITLE LYRICS: ‘Grace’ by Kate Havnevik
 
 
If you need to get caught up, you can do it HERE. 


CHAPTER TWO
DREAMS

“Mom!”

I raced over to her, dropping my bag and flying to her side.

“What, what happened? How…”

I was unable to speak, unable to form a coherent thought. There was blood, so much blood.

“Ora,” she whispered weakly, taking my hand in hers. Her skin was already starting to cool. “I’m sorry. I tried to protect you from this, I didn’t want…” Her voice trailed off and her eyelids fluttered.

“Mom!!”

She opened her eyes slowly and I fumbled in my pocket for my phone with my free hand.

“You’re going to be okay,” I promised, fighting back tears. I dialled 911 and waited, pressing the phone to my ear so hard that it hurt.

“911; what’s your emergency?”

“My mom,” I choked out. “She’s been hurt… There’s so much blood…” My mind struggled to process the situation, to work out what I needed to do, what I needed to say.

“Where is the blood coming from? Can you stop the bleeding?” The voice on the other end was calm. Rational. It infuriated me.

“I don’t… I don’t know.

Panic stiffened my joints and cut my brain off from my limbs.  I couldn’t remember how to move my hands, how to check for the wound. There was blood, so much blood.

“Miss?” The operator almost sounded bored. “What’s your address? We’ll send someone over immediately.”

“2347 Roberts Avenue, Clovis,” I whispered. The phone slipped through my fingers. It hit the floor with a soft thud.

“Mom?”

Her eyes were glassy, staring at a point past my shoulder. I turned around, trying to see what she was seeing. There was nothing there.

“Mom?” My heart hammered in my chest. I squeezed her hand.

It was cold.

Limp.

Lifeless.

My mind was screaming at me to start CPR, to do something, to do anything, but I was unable to move.

Unable to think.

Unable to breathe.

I had no idea how much time had passed when the ambulance finally arrived. I was vaguely aware that they were talking to me, trying to ask me questions, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying. I stared into the eyes of my frozen mother, willing her to wake up, to blink, to breathe. To do anything except stare at the invisible spot over my shoulder. Eventually an ambulance officer managed to unhook my hand from hers, and he guided me into the other room while his partner worked on the body.

The body.

The body.

It was only later, in the morgue, that I realised my hands had been balled into fists for several hours. I uncurled my fingers one by one, wincing as I pulled my fingernails out of my palm. I opened up my hand, surprised to see that I’d been holding something, something I didn’t remember picking up. It was a silver pendant.