Time To Go

Two: John O

Lying awake in bed is what I do best. Not to say that I like it, of course. In fact, I hate it, but it's better than watching Government propaganda on the television or reading the uninteresting period romance novels on my bedside table which are sat beside the flowers that my Mother bought last week. The book is Wuthering Heights; the flowers have already wilted.

I let out a sigh and run a hand through my hair. It feels coarse and brittle, and I don't like it. But I don't want it to fall out.

I'm afraid.

My Mother is supposed to be coming soon. A few minutes and then the dead flowers by my side will be replaced with new ones, my hand will be held and I will be told that the doctors are astounded by my improvements. Sometimes I think she lies to herself, rather than to me. She never really liked me when I was a child - in fact, she barely recognized my existence - but as soon as I'm interesting, I'm suddenly the perfect son.

The noise of the clock infuriates me. I don't like it. It repeats itself, over and over and over again. I grind my teeth and clutch the paper-thin covers. It's too cold. I look over to the window towards the end of the ward. It's getting dark outside. I'm beginning to wonder if Mother will show at all, when I hear the noise of her high heels on the linoleum. It's out of synch with the ticking of the clock, which only angers me further.

"Hello love," she says, sitting down beside me on the cushioned chair and smiled steadily. "Sorry I'm late, there was a massive traffic jam on Ebony Street and I couldn't get past some old bloke in a three-wheeler."

I force a smile and tell her, "It's fine."

She walks to the other side of my bed, pulls the dead flowers from their vase and drops them in the sanitary bin. She surprises me then by sitting down again. No more flowers. "The doctors say you're getting better," she informs me, her gloved hand resting on top of mine. "They say you might make it."

I clench my teeth and say nothing, just nodding my head in response.

"Has Ross or Shane been to see you lately?"

Ross and Shane are my brothers, both of them younger by two and seven years. Both of them have only been to see me once, and on that one occassion, they told me that they didn't have time to come and see me again, what with College and work taking over their lives, but they had both hoped that I would get better soon... they know I won't recover.

I shake my head. I reach out to take Wuthering Heights from the table. I shock myself slightly when I see my hand. My skin is white... pale white... almost translucent and my fingers are long, thin and spidery. Nevertheless, I take the book. It's battered and quite old, and looks as if my Mother has had it since she was small. I hand it to her.

"Have... have you finished it already?" She asks. She looks up at me with her dull brown eyes, and suddenly I feel as if I'm going to cry.

I shake my head and say in a tiny voice. "I just thought you wanted it back."