Every Day has a Memory

Chapter 9

Sorry it's been so long... writer's block. I mean, I know what I WANT to write, but I literally just... CAN'T figure out how I want to put the picture in my head into words. You know what I mean? And also, my teacher's hate me and LOVE to hand out homework to annoy me, which is another reason I'm taking so long, so my apologies. BUT, here we go. I apologise in advance for this crappy chapter.

***

My fear of elevators hadn't dwindled as the years went on, but had done the complete opposite; they'd escalated from 25% scared of them to 99.9% in a matter of five months.

I absolutely hated the thought of being stuck in a claustrophobic little metal box that moved. It terrified me to the point where I felt as if there were no air supply and I'd suffocate.

No, I wasn't scared of many things, but that... That was my worst nightmare.

Tamsyn had thought I was joking when I first confessed to her my fear of confinement on her very first night at the hospital—she soon learnt that it was no joke.

And that, unfortunately, made visiting Tamsyn somewhat of a workout.

"You sure you don't want to take the elevator?" My father asked, three steps behind me.

"I'm sure," I told him. Dad was my chauffeur today, due to the fact that my mother didn't believe I was fit to drive on just ninety minutes—maybe less—of sleep.

The woman had refused to take "no, Mom, I'm fine" for an answer, which led to an argument that I had never intended on having at seven-thirty in the morning. It only ended when my father offered to drive me—but I was certain that if my mother didn't have a brunch to go to, she'd be smothering me with questions.

I did feel sorry for the man, though. He wasn't exactly a spring-chicken anymore, and he didn't really uphold the fitness level that he used to—he was practically dying on the stairs. I had told him that he could take the elevator, but he insisted the stairs would be fine.

He was probably regretting his choice now.

"Pops," I said once I reached the top of the stairs, only metres away from the entrance to Tamsyn's ward. "Take a rest." I instructed, jogging back down two steps to him, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're supposed to take it easy, you idiot. Or have you forgotten the fact that you're not as young as you used to be?" Or as fit, I'd wanted to add, but I didn't really feel like seeing my girlfriend with new bruises handed to me from my father.

Dad waved away my queries. "Shut up. I'm okay, you smartass. It's just been a while since I've done anything this..." He snapped his fingers, thinking of an answer.

"Tiring?" I patted his back. "Yeah, you get that with old age," I joked, stepping aside to let a nurse descend the stairs passed Dad and I.

"It probably doesn't help being in the food industry," he added, leaning against the stair railing to regain is breath, and patted his stomach. "This bad boy has grown since I was in high school."

I chuckled, helping my father up the last few stairs to the top. "That, too," I commented. "You just take a breather, Old man. Come down when you think you won't die of an asthma attack, all right?" I grinned when he narrowed his dark eyes at me, and ducked when he went to slap the back of my hand. "You remember which room, yeah?"

Dad nodded, then dismissed me with a wave of his hand. "I'll be there in a bit," he informed, a little breathless from the steep exertion.

It was crazy to think that this man used to be a star soccer and hockey player—a sports' fanatic—and now, he could barely climb the stairs without struggle. But, to be fair, Dad hadn't been an asthmatic back in those days, and his lungs hadn't collapsed up until six years ago, so I guessed he could be let off the hook.