Eight Ways

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With exhaustion dripping lazily from his eyelids, Nick propped himself up in the bed and began his morning routine: he counted his fingers with the wisps of his voice.

When he reached eight fingers, his breath stopped abruptly. The number fell from his dry tongue, stunned, into the stale air of the dimly lit bedroom. It floated around like dust and circulated his mind.

Eight and eight and eight -

Only eight.

Nick curled his hands into tight fists and pushed them into his lap, under the blanket. The number didn't disappear and continued to ring in his ears.

Yellow light seeped into the room as the door opened with a groan. He didn't bother to look at the figure that shuffled in. Nick knew it was his mother before he heard the sound of a spoon clattering in a mug. She brought him tea every morning, even though it was left to grow cold on the bedside table.

The bed dipped lightly as she sat down carefully. Now in his view, he could see the blurry image of her worn face; the light illuminated the thick scar that curved from her temple to the bridge of her nose.

"Hi," she whispered, gazing heavily at him. "It's seven."

It was her daily procedure to tell him the time, but never the right one. If he looked carefully, straining his eyes tightly, Nick could see the glowing numbers of his watch that rested on the shelf behind her. It read 6:46 A.M.

"Would you like some tea?" she asked.

Nick didn't bother to answer, only watched her numbly as she sighed with defeat and placed the mug on the bedside table. She stared into space, not looking at anything in particular, as she began to wring her hands.

He had expected her to leave for another few hours like she usually did, but instead she veered off the path of familiarity, creating a lump in Nick's throat. It was almost as thick as the one that squeezed all life from her voice.

"I'm leaving for a few days."