Carved in Her Bones

Tomas

What no one tells you about being a dying only child is that your parents' love magnifies and expands to the point of suffocation. My name is Tomas. I am 22 years old, and I am dying.

Well, to be precise—I have stage 3 glioblastoma. A survival rate of 2% among adults my age. From my conception to this very moment, I have beaten a miraculous number of odds. But these? These I doubt I can overcome. Nor do I particularly want to. I have no desire to actively extend this existence, beautiful as it was—or as it is.

My mother rushes into the room again, always carrying that same sense of impatient sorrow, the frantic energy of a mother with an imminently dying child. She perches on the stool next to my bed, watching me the way she always does, with fear and deep sadness carved into her features. Still beautiful. My mother has always possessed the kind of timeless beauty associated with wealth and good breeding. I can't look at her for too long. Her sadness presses against my heart with unbearable weight.

She has worn this distant, faraway expression since it began—like she exists in another world altogether.

"Tomas, your father—"

I tense. My mother rarely utters his name, but I loathe every sentence that begins with your father.

Thankfully, Nurse Laura enters with my afternoon meds. A small mercy.

I have a suspicion she was a heartbreaker in her prime. Slender, with long, wavy brown hair that falls in thick, glossy waves over her shoulders. A smile for days. On a good day, I'd flirt with her. But my mother finds my flirting inappropriate, predatory, and a sign of bad breeding.

Laura flicks the drip, and I offer her a small smile. I like afternoon meds. They drown out the noise. My mother thanks her as she leaves.

Then, as if waiting for the perfect moment, she speaks again.

"Your father thinks you should get a roommate."

I glance at her as she adjusts my pillows, preparing me for my post-medication nap. I know this isn't about money.

"Why?" I ask, my voice low, careful not to sound entitled.

She meets my eyes. "We think you might be lonely here."

So they're moving another boy in with me.

I see.

I suspected my mother spied on me, but now I know for certain. I spoke to Damian yesterday on the phone, and let's just say—I made it abundantly clear that death was the most desirable option for me.

But I don't have the strength, nor the clarity, to argue.

"Okay," I murmur.

Like every afternoon, sleep takes me—slowly, then all at once