Starstruck (the Idea of Always)

Zaterdag 03:12

LUCAS
Lucas stood outside the door to his mother's room, gazing through the window at her. She was in her bed, laying down, her head propped up with several pillows. There were plain, white and grey blankets on top of her, carefully placed by nurses. Her eyes were closed. She looks peaceful.

And warm.

Lucas gently opened the door, unsure about whether she was awake or not, but her eyes opened as soon as it clicked shut behind him.

"Darling..."  She didn't sit up.

"Mama, what happened?"

She didn't answer. The room was so quiet, he could hear the person in the room next door coughing. He could hear wheels squeaking down the hall, could hear someone drop a packet of paper.

"You're supposed to be in Antwerp."

"You're supposed to be at home." His voice broke. "What happened?"

She gently shook her head and looked away.

"Mama, please." He gasped, holding tears back. His knuckles were pale, his fingers gripping his board and the strap of his bag tightly. "Just..."

She shook her head again, sighing and sitting up slightly. The water in the glass next to her shook.

"You look tired," she said quietly.

Lucas huffed, looking away. His eyes stung, and he bit his lip, trying not to cry. She always did this when she didn't want to talk. Always turned it around to whoever was talking to her.

But he was tired.

He hadn't slept on the train, hardly slept at the hotel. He'd cried so hard on the train, his face and shoulders were sore. His lips were raw, had been bloody.

When he looked back at her, her face was soft, her eyes sad. He watched as she shifted, moving to the side of the bed, and lifted the blankets.

Lucas's shoulders dropped and he pulled his bag over his head, dropping both it and the skateboard on the floor before flinging himself across the room and laying next to her, burying his face in her side as she gingerly covered him with the blankets.

They used to do this when Lucas was little, when he had nightmares or panic attacks, when he couldn't breathe through his tears, when he shook so hard she could do nothing but hold him. They would stay like this for hours, until Lucas's face was sore, until her shirt and blankets were tear-stained, until his throat was dry and he was tired.

Lucas wrapped his arm around her, gripping her shirt tightly, and felt her fingers as she held his shoulder.

"I'm okay," she whispered softly.

Lucas cried.

And cried.

And cried.