The Wind Doesn't Talk Back

The Questions

"How is this fair," He asked quietly, even though nobody was listening.

He'd been there for ten straight days now. He was still getting used to the discomforting smells that filled the air here. He probably never would be used to it.

He didn't want to go back into the room, but she called out to him, and her voice drew him back into the room.

He stood in the corner, quiet. There wasn't much to say.

"Avery," She tried.

He didn't move, but he looked at her. He leaned against the wall behind him, unsure of what to say.

"You should go home," His sister suggested, "It's not good for you to just stay here all the time."

"My time is mine to do what I want with, and I want to stay here." His words were anything but true. All he wanted to do was leave, but if he left, would she still be here when he got back? Avery was too scared to leave. He stared at her for a moment, then walked over to her. He pulled the chain off of his neck and set it down on the bedside table. Connected to the chain was a small glass bottle of sand.

He left the room again and stood silently in the hallway. He knew where he needed to go, but he couldn't remember the way to the exit. He wandered the halls for a while until he found the doors. He walked silently away from the hospital behind him. He could have driven, but he'd be back in less than an hour, so he walked.

The cemetery, a place Avery didn't find himself too often, was empty today. He walked to the spot without even thinking about it. The grave belonged to his mother, so he spoke to her. once again asking the question nobody had the answer to.

"How is this fair?"

Avery felt the wind stop as the words left his mouth. Everything was silent, just for a few seconds. Then the wind blew again, and the leaves rustled in the trees behind him. The disease had claimed the life of his mother three years ago, and now was threatening to take his younger sister too. But it left him. Skipped him. Let him live. His sister is only thirteen. She doesn't deserve this. And his mother, who was the worst cook in the world, except when it came to anything sweet, she never deserved to die either.

Avery stood there for a few more seconds, hoping maybe the wind would bring him the answer that he needed. Maybe tell him everything he needed to hear. Tell him that Ashley would survive. That she'd evade the same fate of their mother.

But the wind never spoke back to him. He walked back to the hospital, but he didn't go to Ashley's room. He wandered around the halls, avoiding the hallway where his sister was. He recognized a few faces as he walked through the halls. The nurses and doctors he'd met while his mother was here. But he didn't want to talk to them. He didn't want to talk to anybody.

He soon found himself sitting at a table in the back of the cafeteria. He had his backpack, but he didn't want to open it. He didn't want to look at the things he kept in there. Just a week ago, he was okay. His sister was okay, or, at least, they thought she was. And the pain of losing his mother, although it would never truly be gone, it was less. But that was a week ago, and this is now.

He put his head down, and at some point, he fell asleep, right there in the hospital cafeteria. He dreamt of his mother. Of all the strange things she used to do, and when he woke up, the darkness inside of him, the sadness, it only grew.

Then he remebered Ashley, and he walked to her room. Avery stood in the corner without saying a word to her, but he was there, and that was enough. For now.