Watch You Cry
O O 1
I guess it all began when I was younger. Eleven or twelve, maybe. Age is just a number in situations much like mine.
I remember the way my stomach dropped and how the room fell defeningly quiet as my mother and I sat in those stiff, pastel green chairs. It was like the after-math of an atomic bomb.
It's the small things from that day that I find etched into my memory. Like how the analog clock sitting on the wall was stuck on eleven-fourteen, or how my mother made a habit of studying my face as she spoke to me.
However, among all the insignificant occurances of that day, there lay the one thing that came to change everything.
The tall, grey haired man walked into the small room and sat behind the mahogany desk that took up a noticable amount of space, his aged eyes were focused on the numerous sheets of paper in his hands- studying them much like my mother had to my face. He looked up suddenly, keeping enough eye contact with me to make me uncomfortable, and sighed.
I remember thinking about the bad day the man must have been having, given his evidently sullen attitude and defeated features.
Before I could make any further judgements on the man who had previously encouraged me to call him 'Doc', his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes skpped between my mother's and my own. He dropped the papers, as if finalizing his thoughts and uttered his next words with such confidence that I knew I couldn't second guess him.
"Declan, you're very sick."
I remember the way my stomach dropped and how the room fell defeningly quiet as my mother and I sat in those stiff, pastel green chairs. It was like the after-math of an atomic bomb.
It's the small things from that day that I find etched into my memory. Like how the analog clock sitting on the wall was stuck on eleven-fourteen, or how my mother made a habit of studying my face as she spoke to me.
However, among all the insignificant occurances of that day, there lay the one thing that came to change everything.
The tall, grey haired man walked into the small room and sat behind the mahogany desk that took up a noticable amount of space, his aged eyes were focused on the numerous sheets of paper in his hands- studying them much like my mother had to my face. He looked up suddenly, keeping enough eye contact with me to make me uncomfortable, and sighed.
I remember thinking about the bad day the man must have been having, given his evidently sullen attitude and defeated features.
Before I could make any further judgements on the man who had previously encouraged me to call him 'Doc', his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes skpped between my mother's and my own. He dropped the papers, as if finalizing his thoughts and uttered his next words with such confidence that I knew I couldn't second guess him.
"Declan, you're very sick."
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New story! Only because it's been scribbled down in a notebook for so long and my other story gives me a headache when I think of writing more of it.