The Journey of Death (Short Story)

Chapter 1

On a dreary autumn day, Sydney bustled loudly with chatter and noise. But in a dark room in a high-rise apartment, all sounds became a distant blur. I couldn't hear a sound besides his cries. I couldn't even hear my own screams. My body shook wildly. I couldn't even walk straight. I held him tightly against my chest, his skin sticky with sweat. My scarred hands pet his red hair in an attempt to soothe him. I grabbed my jacket that I had tossed over a nearby chair. Scribbles of twisted faces and hurtful words littered every paper that fell from its pockets. Sketches better left unseen flew behind me as I dashed to the elevator and took it down to ground level. Our bodies were instantly wet with rain, soaking straight to our shivering skin. I begged the child in my arms to stay with me. Five years wasn't long enough. Apologies and promises poured freely from my mouth. It felt like my words blew away in the wind, never reaching his ears. His cries became quieter and raspier. "If you knew what you meant to me, you wouldn't leave me like this!" I cried, tears and rain splattering over his pale face. "Don't leave me... don't leave me" the words were repeated until the lights of the hospital shone over his face. Not a living soul ever heard those words through the crashing rain.

🥀

Another towel was draped over my shoulders, jolting me awake. "You done well getting him here so fast." I looked up and met the eyes of a middle-aged woman in scrubs. My eyes were unfocused, my vision blurry. "You should lay down, love." I shook my head, croaking in protest, "my son." The corners of her eyebrows dipped, "you poor thing," her hand pet my soggy red hair. Her hands were warm and gentle. I wished she would stop touching me. "Let me get you some fresh clothes," she said before walking off, down the cold white floors.

That day I learnt something new. I learnt a new feeling of pain. This time, I could hear my screams. My blood curdling screams. They were the sound the twisted faces in my drawings made. The sound I hoped someone would make for me one day. I knew nobody would. But I couldn't stop. My baby boy lay lifeless on the bed. His once rosey and freckled cheeks were now pale. His lips were white like chalk. His eyes stared unblinkly through the ceiling. His red curly hair sat still and dull, looking like a wig. "My son! My Ollie! He must be alive" the words leapt from my mouth as I ran to cradle the stiff body. I held him in my arms, pressing his cold body against mine. Tears cascaded effortlessly down my thin freckled face. "He must be alive, check again!" I yelled, as the hands of strangers rested on my shoulders and petted my head. Their voices were quiet and calm, saying things like "you will be okay" and "he's in a better place now." I spoke over their endless attempts to console me. Their words were distant and meaningless. I wanted my son back now. "Check again!" I turned to the faces that surrounded me and looked among them for someone who was willing to accept my request. But they all stared back at me, making no attempt to revive my son. "He's still alive, just check! Just check!" I sobbed loudly, holding the sleeve of a nurse and pulling it towards my son. "Do something, help him!" The strangers around me began gently pulling him from my arms. "No, I need to hold him, he's cold!" I continued to sob as I pulled him closer to me. Many hands gently grabbed mine and pulled my son from my grasp. My body felt weak. I couldn't stop them. "Please get him a blanket! He's so cold. He doesn't like the cold," I choked as I fell to my knees.

🥀

I awoke in my bed, the rain outside still pouring. "Ah!" My head stung as distant memories came crashing into my mind in a blur. I remembered being in someone's car. I remembered their persistent voice asking me where I lived. My own voice responded as a monotone statement. I remembered falling into bed. Was it a dream? I looked over at the time. 2am. Why wasn't Ollie crying? He usually hates it when it rains in the night. I sat up and frowned as I saw my messy sketches scattered on the floor. My face went cold. Memories of that night came back to me like a wave of dread. Oliver was dead. He had died and I didn't know why. I couldn't save him. And his last moments were cold, surrounded by strangers.

Tears ran down my face as I approached the drawings on the floor. The twisted, screaming faces seemed to have an audible voice now. One that made my blood run cold. It was mine. I grabbed a sketch and carriered it with me up the elevator and into the sprinkling rain. The roof of the high-rise apartment I lived in had collected large dirty puddles that sogged my already wet socks. The wind caught by curly red hair, mixing it with drops of rain, blowing it over my face. I reached the edge of the roof and looked down the sickening drop. The city lights sparkled as far as I could see. Cars kept driving, the rain kept pouring, people kept living. Nothing had changed. Life was continuing as if nothing had happened. Five years ago, Oliver saved my life, and in an instant, he was gone. My boy left this world, and it didn't skip a beat. We belong together. Nobody missed him, just like nobody will miss me. My sketch fluttered away in the icy wind.

Robin Darcy, 2004- 2024.