just_writing | a story wot I wrote

Its also on my LJ cos I was being thick but I thought I'd pop it here too for constructive crit thingy
Forever And Ever

After Bath Time was always special. It was the time when the lights were dimmed and when the pace slowed and cuddles and conversations were had.
‘Mummy will you always love me?’
‘Always’
‘What about when I’m dead?’
He didn’t mean to upset her but he had done, she frowned, then smiled and pulled him close, the towel pulled tightly around him. He was damp from the bath but warm, she smelled of perfume.
‘You don’t have to worry about that, you’ll live longer than Mummy! Anyway let’s not talk about us dying, ok?’
He had only just started thinking about death, he didn’t understand it, it had never touched him but the subject, unlike others when his parents always had answers was always met with a pause and a sad expression followed usually with a hug and a change of subject.
This time was no exception, his mother hugged him, the towel pulled tightly around him, he was damp but warm…
He was damp, but the warmth faded, there was no towel, there were blankets.
He was in bed, but it wasn’t his bed, his bed was small and cosy, old wood, this bed was big, it was made of metal, the pale paint was chipped, why wasn’t he in his bed?
He had wet himself, it wasn’t the warm residue of a bath. He hated to wet the bed, even though he could feel the cool slide of a plastic sheet crackling beneath the course slip on the bed, the bed was wet and he hated his weakness he was a big boy now he shouldn’t be doing this.
She smiled, she smelled of sleep. Tears brimmed in his eyes, the light was too bright and his dream was gone. His father picked him up and cuddled him on the sofa in his room while she flipped, folded and tucked dry sheets, soon he was back in bed, he didn’t really hear what they were saying, though his dream had slipped away, sleep didn’t quite let him go, but the gentle tone of their words, the soothing touch, the kiss on the forehead stemmed the tears and sent him back into slumber.
He woke up again, he was dry, a woman he didn’t know pushed his hair back from his forehead it was gentle but not a caress. Where was Mummy? The woman was wearing a plastic apron and plastic gloves they hissed like a snake when she moved, she rolled up the soiled sheets before throwing them into a trolley. This was not his room, the walls were bare green, where were the pictures of the trains? Where were his book shelves? He was confused, tears brimmed.
He tried to roll over, to get up and go into his parents’ room. Something was sticking in his arm, it was deep in, a long cold splinter, the tears made it hard to focus, he couldn’t find the strength to pull it out. He felt something like a cord slipping between his fingers it was in his arm…where was he?
He felt panic rising, his heart struggled in his chest, his eyelids fluttered like moths, washing away the blurring tears, then he saw her, Mummy was here. She stood in the doorway talking to the strange woman, her long thin fingers danced to and fro and the woman nodded her head, led by the orchestration of his mother’s movements she pushed the trolley out of the room and into the darkness.
She was wearing a beautiful dress, silken flowers shimmered in the fabric, her hair was pulled back, she smelled of perfume, she smelled of her. The babysitter said something but he wasn’t listening, he was transfixed by her, she pulled off her gloves as she sank down onto his bed, her dress spread like the petals of a flower across the quilt.
No not flowers, not a dress at all, she was wearing trousers and a long coat. She tucked the coat beneath her as she sat on the bed, the plastic sheet squeaked slightly in protest. She looked tired and pale but it was Mummy and everything was going to be alright.
She brushed his hair back from his forehead, her fingers felt like feathers against his skin.
There he lay; her baby, her child. He looked so small in the hospital bed, his eyes seemed too large for his head, pale and fever bright, as pale as a summer sky. With every passing moment she could feel herself turning to stone, her veins cracking like fault lines shattering inch by inch, her baby, her child, was dying.
‘I missed you Mummy’
‘I missed you too’
‘Cuddles?’
‘Cuddles’
She slipped her arm beneath him, it hurt. Every touch bruised his thin flesh but it didn’t matter, not now. He nestled his head against her chest, the slow rhythm of her heart tamed his own and drew it to a matching pace. She rocked him back and forth, patting his back in time to a song neither had to sing.
She looked down at her son, the wisps of his pale hair hung like dust on his head, every vein stood out across his skull, every laborious pulse of his heart there to be seen. He slipped his hand around her neck, it was as light as a breeze against her skin. The canula was a brutal, futile intrusion, its cold plastic housing snagged in her hair. She pulled it out, let it slip to the floor, a tiny spot of blood bloomed on the back of his hand, she covered it with her thumb pressing the life back in.
‘Will you love me forever Mummy?’
‘Yes baby, forever’
‘Even when I’m dead?’
‘Forever and ever’
She pulled him against her, the towel was tight and snug, he felt warm, she smelled of her, he was safe.

Ever so gently she laid him down, a late summer evening, tired from play, too tired to wash, too asleep to wake when she undressed him. She pulled the quilt around his tiny body, tucking it under his chin, he did not stir.
The hospital blankets were rough; nevertheless she handled them as though they were the most precious silk as she tucked them around her son’s body. He looked so small in the hospital bed, her heart stopped beating, turning finally to stone as she kissed him goodbye.
She picked up the chart. Harold Harris; Ninety two, the rest was a blur of insignificant data. She hooked it back onto the end of the bed.
Her mobile phone vibrated like a trapped wasp in her pocket, she read the message;
‘Where r u? Hurry up…’ it read. She crushed it like paper before dropping it into the bin. She should leave, dawn was breaking.
He looked so sweet curled up in his bed, the mahogany frame, the soft quilt, his innocent face unlined by care or wont. It had been a long day, just five minutes wouldn’t hurt. She curled around him, his warm breath against her face, his damp hair smelled of him, she was safe.

Sister gave the night nurse a dressing down, not because the old fellow had died, that was expected, it was the dust all over the poor old man's bed that really pissed her off, what would the family think when they came in?