Lying here, sick in my stupid, old, busted up bed. It sucks so much. Dying and knowing it, that is. If I am going to die soon, I want it to be here. In the safety of my own home. My mother will most likely try to get me up and to school. She doesn’t know about my sickness. I would never have the nerve to worry her. She is the sweetest person you could ever know. She gives our leftover food to the poor and the homeless; she always gives up her seat on the bus. She is always kind and so selfless. I would never try to upset her, she doesn’t deserve that. It was hard enough when Dad walked out on us. I am supposed to go to school. I haven’t gone for a while though. I stopped the day I learned about my sickness. I got up every morning to go, then walked past it. I don’t want Mother to be suspicious of me. I missed Carly, though. She was my best friend. She would have been the first person I told if I had told someone. It was too risky though. I just told her I was on a long trip. I am scared that Mother would come in any minute now. I should try to get up. UGH! It’s too hard.
“George, I’m coming in, ok?” Oh no, I think. Just act really tired, and pretend to be ok, I tell myself. She opens the door and looks in.
“George it’s time to get up, are you ok?”
“Yes Mom, I’m just …” I can’t lie anymore. “Mom, I … I’m not ok. I’m sick.”
“Oh you poor thing. Do you have a fever? Do you need medicine?” She rushes toward my bed, her arms stretched out towards me. She tries to kiss my forehead.
“No, mom. It’s not like that.” I push her away. “I have a sickness. In my stomach.” I showed her the spot where the infirmitatem is. It was a bigish brown spot on my stomach.
“It hurts,” I say. She falls to the ground. I panic. What do I do? Should I help her up? Should I call someone. Did she faint? Is she ok?
“Mom! MOM?! Are you ok?!” I run, or more like hobble, to the phone. I dial in the number: 911. I don’t press call. Why? Why don’t I press call? I delete the numbers. (646) 534-7925, call. I press call. I wait. I wait more. I begin to become impatient. Just then a voice comes from the end of the other line.
“Hello? Mary? Is that you is everything Ok? Why are you calling me?” He sounds angry.
“Uh, um, no it’s me. Um uh, I think Mom fainted, or had a heart attack. What do I do?!” I start to cry. Why am I allowing myself to cry? Why would I do such a stupid thing? Now Dad will know how serious it really is.
“What?! Did you call 911 yet?”
“Uh, no. I called you.” I say. A pang of guilt hits me. Maybe I should have called 911.
“Ugh, just, call 911, Ok? It will be Ok.”
“Ok, bye.” I hang up and press my forehead against the wall. I bang it five times. I put the phone back up to my ear and dial the numbers 9-1-1.
“Uh, hello? Police, Firemen, or ambulance? What can I help you with?”
“My, um, mother had a heart attack.” I give them my address and hung up. For the first time in seven years I cry twice in a day. I cry until the ambulance arrives. And then it is dark. All … dark.
Next thing I know I am lying in a large bed, in a large wooden-floored room. I sit up, but quickly realized that was a bad idea. My small spot of infirmitatem has grown to a huge lump. I panic again. I don’t where I am, or how long I was asleep for.
“Hello?” A faintly familiar voice calls through the door. A man walks in. My dad. He came back. Am I happy he is here or angry that he left?
“Hi,” I say weakly. He obviously saw the spot.
“Let’s get you to the hospital.”
“Where is mom?” I have so many questions for him, all rushing through my mind.
“Where is mom?!” I raise my voice and I need to know. I wouldn’t leave without my answe- OW! It is so painful.
“She is… gone.” He sounds disappointed. Then I feel myself just slip away. Gone. Forever.