"Heads or tails?" He asked nonchalantly, the coin dancing between his fingers.
"Head." She replied, and he raised a brow. The mixture of confusion and surprise in his eyes was doubled, but a cocky grin rose on his lips when she pulled out her gun.
A...
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Ada's Point of View
You ever hate and love something all at once?
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Every single beep of the heart monitor sent a spike of dread up my stomach, then through my esophagus before it got lodged right in my throat. I hated the sound. I hated it so damn much, it triggered this unexplainable anger in me. And yet, at the same time, I was extremely grateful. Relief gripped me just as unease did, because the beeps were proof of a living heart that belonged to my gallant mother.
My forehead was planted against the top of my hand, whose elbow was balanced on the hospital bed. My fingers were laced with someone else's. They were slightly wrinkled, and the tenderness of old age softened their flesh. I lifted my head to glance at the patient.
She was a woman around her fifties- inching to sixties. An oxygen mask was strapped to her mouth. Her eyes were cracked open unconsciously, and I could see the slits of her pupils move around in a slow pattern.
The needle of an IV was inserted into the surface of her hand. Various electrodes stretched from the heart monitor and slithered into her hospital gown, and I was sure they were attached to the skin of her chest. My eyes moved towards her bandaged wrists, and when I caught a few scars peeking from its corners, another tear dripped down my cheek.
This was my mother's fifth attempt at taking her own life.
I thought I had hidden all the blades in our house. I was wrong, given from the fact that I found her slumped against my bathroom's wall when I got home from work. Rivers of red dripped from her wrist and tainted everything around it. Her skin was cold yet clammy with sweat. And the worst bit; my pink razor was lying around next to her.
Never before did I hate myself as much as I did at that moment. I was so fucking caught up in worrying about my body hair, that I forgot I had a suicidal mother living with me.
Her attempt took place about twenty days ago. Three weeks ago, I had barely managed to call the ambulance with my trembling hands. Three weeks ago, I had watched the nurses drag her away from me and into the emergency room, where I sat outside for days on end with the hope that she'd wake up soon.
It was three weeks ago, when I was told my mother had slipped into a coma. And the chances of her returning were close to none.
Sometimes I'd wish that she'd stop fighting the battle and give up. It was selfish of me, but I wished her soul would leave her body. Because then and only then would her suffering end- both emotional and physical.
