As the dream faded, she chased it, forlorn. She tried to fall back asleep, twisting and turning in her bed. The cushion felt soft to her touch, the temperature was cold, and the blankets were just right. But she felt this weird state of frenzy. She had always been a very calm sleeper, but tonight she couldn’t stop fidgeting.
She had dreamed of him coming back to her, cradled in her mom’s arms. Like the very first time she saw her. It was a pleasant kind of nostalgia, but it was black and white and cold. For the first time in her life, this memory of hers, felt to her very foreign, as if it was never her memory to keep. Failing to fall back asleep, she woke up and made a cup of coffee, lights turned off, the entire house was pitch dark. She walked around the kitchen table, tracing the edge of it with her red nails. She remembered the time when his head could barely reach the table. How he almost hit his head, when he first stood up holding on to this very edge. She used to make coffee the same way, as his small eyes would peak at her, trying to jump and catch a glimpse of his waffles and chocolate syrup.
She turned the lights on in the doorway, as she walked with the mug in her hands sipping on her coffee. She lit her cigarette and paused past each picture on the wall. They were all him. The first baby cot, the first little birthday cake she made for him, his first walker, his first bike and finally his first girl friend. They weren’t exactly together anymore; she had apparently disliked his taste in slimes. But it was too pretty a picture to take down. She was in a little pink dress, and he had his Dragon Ball Z T-shirt on. The next picture right next to his room was from the time they went to the beach. This memory was still very fresh. She had him in her arms, holding him up high, against the sunset. This was a year and a half ago and he was 6. She touched the dust on the frame with the hands of her sweater, as she thought how light he was back then. They all thought he wouldn’t grow. But he did.
She turned the knob on his door, and slowly opened the door to him. He was still the cutest little kid she had ever seen. He had very faint similarities to his dad, and he was rather identical to her, she always told herself even though no one would ever say he looked anything like her. She tip toed across his bed, and turned on the lamp and his face lit up. She looked at his lashes, so long and blonde; and his little baby cheeks, she kissed them. As she was leaning on him, she felt something drip on her toes. The blood from his body was leaking down to floor, crippling down the bed sheets. She can’t possibly get a stain on the floor, she thought. She would have to clean this mess up as soon as she could.
But her little boy looked so peaceful; she didn’t want to move him an inch. But her OCD was getting to her. She looked at him once more, before going over to the kitchen. This time she turned on the lights. She thought she should clean the knives first. As she turned the tap on, the water trickled down the dried blood on the knife. She would have to get her hands dirty it seemed. She sighed, as she took a dollop of dish washing liquid and started cleaning the blood off with a sponge. She took her time with it. The water falling down was ice cold, and her hands had gotten numb. The ashes from the cigarette on her lips were now dropping off into the sink.
When she was finally done, she took a mop to his room and turned the air conditioning on. She began by taking the blanket off as she regretted stabbing him through the blanket. It was such a waste to throw the beautiful blue color away. She stripped his clothes off, one by one, carefully folding them and keeping them in the laundry basket. Finally, she cleaned the wound in his gut and stopped the bleeding with a lot of gauze and bandage. Her hands were perfectly calm again, not like when she awoke. Then she picked him up, and sat him in the chair; the same chair where he first wrote his ABCs and on the same desk, where she had helped him carve her name. She noticed that his medical reports had blood on them. She wiped them off, with her white sleeves, and put them away in the trash. He had been diagnosed with Medulloblastoma last year. Right in front of her eyes, he had changed from her little ball of sunshine to a ticking bomb. She couldn’t take it anymore, seeing him die little by little. So she took matters to her own hands.
She changed the bed sheets, and for the last time she put him to bed. She put out a fresh new blanket she had brought for him yesterday and kissed him on his soft blonde bangs and whispered “Happy Birthday, Love”.