page four: mel

Before you step into the sterile, listless room, she seems to stir uneasily, though her eyes are still shut. It’s as if she can sense your presence. Maybe she even knows? Not that it would make any difference. The time had come.

No need to walk quietly or even to fake a smile. What matters is shutting the door and drawing the curtains. Once that’s taken care of, you just march forcefully towards the bed. Reaching her, you can see she’s completely still. You were just letting your imagination – or emotions? – get the better of you. Come on now, we know better than that, don’t we? Focus, you idiot. Now was not the time to reflect on the countless machines and tubes surrounding her or the sallow, papery-thin skin drawn over her taut cheekbones.

There had been enough time spent dwelling on those things. There would be too much time in the coming weeks, months, years. You know what needs to be done and she was the one who taught you. So, really, what was the problem? You were only being an obedient child, surely? A small, bitter smile starts to form. So much easier to be angry, isn’t it? Makes it all seem… logical, almost.

On with it, then. After all, you don’t have all day. Or at least, she doesn’t.

Parker pen uncapped, you place it, gently, in her lifeless yet warm hands and curve the once-elegant fingers around it. Naturally, you practice on a plain piece of paper first, as you’ve practiced endlessly over the years. No taking chances. Practice makes perfect, Christopher. How ironic that it’s her voice that helps you. Satisfied, you reach for the will and just like that, the moment you’ve awaited for more than a decade is right there.

“Mr. White? Is that you, sir? We told you not to lock the door. Please let us in, sir.” The calm yet clipped tone brooked no argument. Your heart sinks and you can almost see the window of opportunity slamming shut. No, I can still do this. It’s a struggle to take a deep breath and call out brightly, “Just a second, Maggie!” but you manage it, anyway.

Back to business. Hurry, damnit. Make or break time. You quickly scrawl her name; as long as it’s legible. Lightning-fast, you rearrange her limp hands and stash the pen and priceless document into your backpack. All done. She wouldn’t call you slowpoke anymore, would she? A genuine smile slowly forms. Time to face the music. Only now, you’re leading the choir.