Mission was Taken DNF

Hiraeth

Hiraeth

   (n.) a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.

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   A gentle knock taps at the burgundy stained door that keeps a fine distance from me and my nightmares. A tick per second from my old dusty clock counts down my immunity. A sunbeam coming from the window above my bed, taunts me with shivers and my head pounds down; blood and bone aching.

   Knock Knock

   I twitch at the noise canceling sound that comes from the other side. A tickle forms at my throat, I couldn't be loud, not now. I stifle the cough that tries to bore through my mouth, but it only pushes harder against my pale lips. One last knock hits my door, a little louder than the rest, before I jump away from the opening door. My skin, feverishly paler than before. Inevitably a woman appears, adjacent to the door, holding a small mug of what looks to be steaming and warm with soup. The toasty smell replaces the stale state of the room.

   "Clay, I made you some soup to help your sore throat." She hums and holds the soup in front of herself, making it easily accessible. However, I'm unable to move. Scared of my own mother.

   "Clay you heard me right? Come take this." She sighs, the smell of her breath reeks of vodka. No wonder she's being nice for once. I watch her, silently, waiting for her to leave my room; my only safe place. My mother looks to her left, seeing my desk covered with dust other than the few lines from fingers or papers, spiders probably live in the drawers. Slowly she places the hot mug then turns away back out my door. Before she leaves, she turns back, glancing at me indirectly. She doesn't look there, her brittle blonde hair is streaked with grey and her eyes dark. Then she leaves, slamming my door with several creaks.

   I look over at the piping cup full of what could be delicious soup, prepared nicely just for me. My fever growing, my face cold but burning. Just for me. I smile at the kind gesture and get up and carefully pull out my desk chair and although wood, to match the rest of the aged Victorian house, it doesn't creak.

   The spoon swirls in the broth, sparkles from the salt content shine in little patterns and the steam heavily pours upwards in the cold room. Picking up the silver spoon, I'm met with an amazing smell. Chicken, carrots, noodles, celery, everything you could imagine in a homemade chicken noodle soup is perfectly mixed together. My smile widens and I start to down the liquid meal, burns run down my throat and I can barely taste the meal because of how hot it truly is. Once it's gone, each and every drop, I move back to my old bed. Cuddling in my light sheets then watching my warm breath puff out warm dewy condensation. The sickness I have calmly lolls me to sleep, a grateful smile left on my face. I would miss this, I would miss these little moments for the rest of my life, right?

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   A loud bash hits the side of the walls down below me, waking me up immediately. My body was left to breathe, think, and prepare all too quickly. The warm sun still sat outside, warming the freshly fallen snow outside, but now it sits just below my window. With no light in my room, I'm left to just one of my physical senses, hearing.

   Cries echo through the house eerily, a yell reverberates off the vinyl wallpaper.

   "I thought you were getting better! Why would you start drinking again! What have I done to make you go back to your old habits. We cannot afford you losing another job, another car, we just cannot!" A male voice angrily exclaims in worry and shock. Obviously talking to my mother, obviously trying to get something inside her head. A thought or two could do the job, but the oceans in her head pull her into the depths of numbness matching the cold in heart.