I Wished You Were Dead Everyday (Short Story)

I Wished You Were Dead Everyday

I never thought I'd end up where I am right now.

The harsh glare of the white light was enough to send shivers down my spine.

I would have thought of this as a dream if it weren't for the incessant—albeit weak—beeps coming from the machine next to me.

The smell of disinfectant on the cold white walls told me that there is no comfort to be found here.

Standing next to her bed, I could see but a shell of the person whom she used to be. Gone was the fierce, proud woman who seemed like she would have lived forever. Had it not been for the mole on the right side of her face, I would have thought I was in the wrong room.

The woman lying on the bed in front of me looked so fragile, like dried up flower petals that could crumble into dust at the mere touch of a finger, or maybe even the slightest hint of a breeze.

I didn't think I had it in me to come back. If shame had a face, I think it would look like mine. I knew we were both probably tired of this, but here I am. One more time.

She was never what you would call a motherly type. She was a stern disciplinarian worse than a drill sergeant.

A single stroke out of line, a single note off-key, a single step in the wrong direction, and my siblings and I would be in for a scolding, or even punished with a beating. There was never any favored tool or weapon. She'd take the first thing she can pick up and use it to beat us. And if nothing is available, her hand will automatically fly to your face.

Because I was the eldest, it became my duty and my doom to become a good example for my younger siblings. Hence, nothing that I do would satisfy her demands for perfection.

Or maybe because if it wasn't for her getting pregnant with me, she would have reached the success which she had worked so tirelessly for at the peak of her youth.

I may never really know.

I can't even remember how things started. All I know is that once it did, it never really ended.

I wished she was dead. Every. Single. Day.

I wished she was dead.

When she wouldn't let me get a dog because we couldn't take care of it.

I wished she was dead.

When she told me, we couldn't afford a Playstation for my 12th birthday.

I wished she was dead.

When she beat me up when my baby sister fell from the bed because I was too busy watching videos on my phone to look after her properly.

I wished she was dead.

When my friends all had the latest iPhones and all I had were dinosaur hand-me-downs from our relatives.

I wished she was dead.

When I asked for a laptop and all I got was that big, chunky, old secondhand PC.

I wished she was dead.

Whenever she wouldn't let me sleep over at my friends' house or tell me to come home early because I needed to watch over my younger siblings.

I wished she was dead.

Then I wouldn't feel like she's breathing down my neck every time. I wouldn't have to always look over my shoulder to make sure she's not there watching every single thing I do.

I wished she was dead.

Because there was a time when I tried to climb her steps thinking she would be proud to see me following her lead. But she told me to take a different path, one that ran opposite where I wanted.

I wished she was dead.

Then I wouldn't have felt so worthless all the time.

I wished she was dead.

Because I thought that the only way to make her look at me is when I fell, and I didn't want to recall the disgraceful times I tried to see how low I could get myself to the ground just to get her attention.

I wished she was dead.

Because I couldn't bear my life with her.

I wished she was dead.

Because I couldn't accept the person who I was turning into.

I wished she was dead every day.

Because I blamed her for everything that was wrong in my life.

And one day, I finally said goodbye and turned my back on her, telling myself that I would never come back.

Yet here I am. Standing at her bedside, watching her chest rise and fall oh so painfully slowly.

"Honey, she's here." Dad coaxed the woman on the bed as her eyes stirred open, and I felt my heart begin to panic.

She turned a pair of glazed eyes on me and I watched as they slowly brightened and a small smile started to form in her dry, chapped lips.

She called my name.

And I stood and stared at her like a deer facing a car's headlights.

"You're here." Her voice was barely audible, but I felt as if I could hear every syllable in my head.

I was only able to say a single word.

"Mom."

And I broke.

I realized I've been holding my breath since the moment she stirred, hanging onto every word she was saying. My legs went weak, and I ended up kneeling by her side.

"I'm home, Mom." I squeezed her hand. Was it always this rough? This callused?

She gave me a small chuckle, but I can see a tear running down to her pillow.

"Welcome home."

I felt her squeeze back weakly, then saw her fall back to sleep.

"It's normal," Dad tried to explain. "The drugs keep her unconscious most of the time so she won't feel any pain. You can stay at home while you're here. Your mom kept it the same since you left home. I had it cleaned and put fresh sheets on your bed."

I shook my head.

I wanted nothing more than to sit by my mother's side and listen to her breathing while I desperately pray to the heavens above for another chance.

And for the first time in a long time, I cried.

I cried for myself.

I cried for my mother.

I cried for the wounds we have inflicted on each other.

I cried for the scars that became testament to our relationship.

I cried for the things that I couldn't say. The apologies that should have been said but were swallowed time and time again.

I realized I had tried to chase her all my life, only to find myself clinging onto the edges of her shadow.

But we were mother and daughter. And if there was anything that I inherited from her, it would be my pride.

So I cried for forgiveness.

I wanted her to live...

Because I haven't been able to tell her how much I love her.

I wanted her to live...

Because I wanted to make up for the times we have missed.

I wanted her to live...

Because I wanted her to stay long enough to see her grandchildren.

I wanted her to live...

Because I am sorry... so sorry... I wish I could take everything back... I wish I could go back...

So many things left unsaid.

All of them stuck in my throat.

But in the end, the only thing I had the courage to say were three selfish words.

"Mom, don't die."