Obscurity

Twelve forty-six.

She walked quietly back to her seat, afraid of the noise she could make. A timid creature, she is.

Her fingers, she started to play with. Only to stop, they get tangled easily. Instead, she rubbed her hands, as if she’s cold. She stops this too, since she didn’t like the feel of it. She wiped her hands on her now fully button up blouse.

She stood up and walked closer to the other side of the room. She checked the time.

Twelve forty-seven.

This time, she decided to take a little detour. She walked around the scattered seats, walked around the coffee table. Something caught her eye. She picked up a glossy magazine. The cover trying to seduce her in reading it, promising her with secrets on ‘How to lead a happy life!’. She immediately dropped the magazine.

She quickly walked back to her seat. Faintly rocking herself.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Her eyes are closed. That way, she may be able to reassure herself that ‘it’s okay’ and ‘everything will be alright’.

But the only reassuring she heard was the reply of a ticking clock. Telling her that time will always go on.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Suddenly, the door opened, “Ms. Faulkner?

“Y-yes?”

She opened her eyes. She stopped rocking herself.

“We have Jethro’s results. Dr. Meyable would like to see you.”

“Y-yes.”

━・━・━・━・━・━・━・━・━・━・━・━・━・━・━・━・━

Jethro Faulkner.

She saw him sitting on the examining table, wearing a pale green patient gown. He looked up to the woman. His mother. She is plenty years younger than how she looks.

Life cheated her. That was her excuse.

Seeing her son, she rushed to him, wrapping her arms around him, enveloping him. He flinched at the sudden contact, but nevertheless returned the embrace. It was her that needed comforting.

“Fine like a possum eating a chair star.”

He spoke. He speaks coherently, as his low voice articulated each word. But he made little sense. Yet she understood him.

She sniffed, wanting to hold it all in. She stopped hugging him, and took a step back. She examined her son.

His expression matched his gown. Faded. Tired. Weary.

From habit, she ran her hand through his choppy tousled hair. His hair reminded her of a strong, concentrated coffee with burnt toast. Brushing his hair, she noticed the faint caramel highlights; it gave him a touch of warmth. She slowly retracted her hand and he shook his head, readjusting himself. His locks fell, just bordering the edges of his face and barely touching his cheekbones.

He rubbed his right eye. His right eye, agitated. He sniffed. He rubbed his right eye again, this time roughly. He only rubbed his right eye, but both his grey eyes are welling up, brimming.

He bit his bottom lip. Hard. That is why his eyes are wet. Nothing more, nothing less.

She knew better than to mention his eyes. But he hugged her. Gently cradling her, faintly humming a tune of a lullaby she may have once sung to him whilst he was a child. Funny, wasn’t it? He’s the child and she’s the mother, yet he was comforting her.

“Mother, don’t cry.”

She closed her eyes, willing herself to not cry, to not break down. He should never know how much he resembled his father. She sniffed as hugged her son in return. Life was truly unfair. First it cheated her and now, it’s cheating her son.