Agreements With Mr Rich Boy | ✓

1 | The Letter

MY FINGERS TREMBLED as I gripped the paper within my hands. The sound of it shaking was the only thing to be heard in the otherwise silent room. That, and my laboured breathing.

I couldn't keep track of my thoughts, let alone make sense of them. Each time one came, a new would budge it— or in most cases, shove it—out of the way.

I felt the bed beneath me as I lowered myself onto it. I couldn't believe it. I couldn't, and would not for the next few minutes, comprehend just what I was reading.

Things like this just didn't, like ever, happen to people like me. I liked to think it was the universe repaying me for all the miserable stuff that had gone on in the duration of my life, but then I remember that no, it was not fate nor luck that got the words 'We are delighted to officially accept'  printed onto the letter, but my own work. And I'd worked bloody, damn hard. I was happy, ecstatic even.

Nothing could take away from that.

My mother's hacking from the room opposite mine struck me out of my delirious daze. Except that. That was the only thing to take away from my contentment.

I didn't have to peek my head around the corner to know she was slumping her way to the bathroom at this point, the creaking of the floorboards and the routine being repeated and repeated and repeated being all I needed to know this. She'd be bent over the toilet, in her frayed and discoloured dressing gown, with material around her head.

I waited until my mind stopped whirring. As selfish as it sounds, I focused on my achievement, on myself. Thoughts wandered to where I would stay, what the lessons would be like, what the professors would be like, what the students would be like. It was almost enough to tune out her vomiting her guts up. Almost.

***

Sometime after I'd opened the letter, I must have fallen asleep because I awoke, feeling groggy and a little disoriented and submerged in complete darkness. I say opened and not received because the letter itself had stayed tucked safely in my bedside table for several days.

It was old and scratched, and the draws stuck every time you opened them. It made it difficult to get things in and out of them, and for once, it was helpful. Mum was too weak to heave it open, and I liked to think she respected my privacy anyway (even though she most certainly did not) so it was hidden for now. Only me, in this household, in the know.

Still with my letter in hand, I stumbled my way to my door. Like the bedside table, it stuck slightly and let out a resounding creaking noise that could likely be heard a few houses down.

The one, maybe two, friends that had come to my house that asked if I wanted new things, I'd always told them no. Why should I get new things when they were not necessary, not essential? I'll admit freely that I'd despised my mother every time she told me I couldn't buy this toy or that, but perhaps it moulded me into a better person because I did not have things at the click of my fingers. Perhaps.

She was in her bed, turned towards the window, when I pushed gently on her door. It creaked a little, but not half as much as my own.

I placed a hand on her shoulder. She awoke after a bit of deliberation but I waited, patiently. After a few darted glances around her room, she registered where she was, who I was, and who she was. The lamp on her right side was switched on after a few fumbled attempts, and the room was no longer in darkness but a warm, golden glow.

"What is it, my love?" She asked of me.

I found it difficult not to look at her skinny, pale arms as she reached for the paper I handed over. I knew if the treatment wasn't making all her hair fall out, it'd be covering her arms then— maybe even relieving her of the goosebumps littering her skin.

"It's my letter," I told her. Almost immediately, she propped herself up, even if it was a struggle. I didn't move to help her.

"Oh wow. Already?" She asked. I nodded once in response, but there was hardly enough light to read the paper so seeing my face was likely difficult.

"Yes," I said, instead. "I got it this morning."

That was a lie, clearly, but I found myself doing that more and more frequently nowadays. It was like second nature. I most definitely wouldn't lose sleep over telling her it'd arrived two days later than it actually did.

She read it quickly, but interest flickered in and out of her eyes. I knew she wanted to be interested, but she just couldn't. I gritted my teeth.

Her fingers pointed beneath the words as she read, to keep her eyes on the right line.

She shivered. "Would you mind closing the window, dear?"

"It is closed, Mum."

She pulled her blanket tighter around herself. It made me feel sweltered as I stood in my hoodie, feeling sweat pool in the small of my back. The heating in her room was turned to its absolute maximum, yet I could still hear her chattering teeth and my eyes were drawn to her wobbling chin as she attempted to conceal it with her hand.

"Oh, sweetheart!" She cheered. "I am so, so so proud of you. Give me a hug!"

We leant towards each other, me more so. I didn't know where to put my arms, so settled for letting her do the hugging whilst I just... stood. She wrapped her arms around me, and I almost cringed at how frail they felt, and how frail she felt against me.

For a moment, I imagined she wasn't plagued by this illness, and we were just like a regular family. One where you could celebrate things like this. So, I tenderly wrapped my arms around her waist, and breathed in her floral scent.

It didn't take too long for reality to come crashing down as she hurriedly pulled away, and I may have been affronted by this, had she not pulled a crumpled tissue from her pillow and coughed into it. She tried to cover it, but I saw the blood. How could I not?

Looking at her from the door now, I recalled a fond memory of crawling into bed beside her and having her hug me, protecting me from whatever nightmare I'd had or when I was just in need of my Mum. I'd been no more than eight: a child.

I lay in my own bed, staring at the ceiling. I thought of how strange and refreshing it would be to get away from it all, and to throw myself into school again.

God, I thought. I'm a monster.