This is how my mother died:
I was sixteen. We lived in a small apartment on the northern side of the city. The world was younger. We were poor and happy.
The apartment was one and a half bedrooms. My room was actually a walk-in closet once, remodeled by the previous tenants. It hosted a narrow bed, a writing desk, and a flimsy bookshelf. I had a poster on one wall with an image of a window opening to the view of a mountain landscape. The mountains were somewhere in France. There were waterfalls falling down brown rocks, grass so green it was almost translucent, and the vast, deep blue sky with white pillowy clouds. I liked the idea that my fake window could reach across the ocean.
Back then I was still going to school. I was obsessed with mathematics. I guess it was my escape: the world was muddy, irrational and hard, but math wasn't. It existed outside human concepts of good and evil, outside the dissonance of living. It was pure logic and yet allowed for creativity. That was two years after my Protector -- back then it was a morose man in his fifties -- advised me against winning any math competitions, so I had to be careful not to be too noticeable in class. Most of my education was done in the solitude of the school library.
We had our daily routine perfected, a well-oiled microcosm of bliss and efficiency. My mom would get out of bed earlier than me and make us breakfast. I would awake to the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the delicate sound of her steps. We would eat and chat idly, she reading the newspaper first, then passing it on to me. Then she would put on her waitress uniform, and I would get ready for school. We would say goodbye to each other at the bus stop and go our separate ways.
I would go to school; sit quietly in the back of the class, soaking up knowledge. Sometimes classes were fun, but mostly they were dull. Too superficial, paying too much attention to how without asking why. Interesting nevertheless. I would struggle with the urge to raise my arm and ask questions. After class, I would go to the library and hunt for answers. Then, sometimes, I would hang out with my friends; sometimes, I would go to the school pool and swim until my muscles hurt. The more they hurt, the calmer my mind would become.
Then I would go to a store, get groceries, come home and make dinner. By the time mom got back from work, tired after the long shift, the food was ready. We would discuss our days. I would tell her about all the things I had learned, secrets I had divined, exciting truths I had uncovered. Like: did you know that Julius Caesar was the second Roman general to conquer Rome? Did you know that there are forty-three quintillion possible combinations of a Rubik's Cube? Did you know that tears produced by emotion have a slightly different chemical composition than tears produced by eye irritation? She would smile and ask questions. Then she would tell me about the people she served in the diner. The regulars were like characters in a long-going TV show. Bob got a new dog, it's a German Sheperd. Such a cute little puppy! Zelda's son finally came back from the cruise: she got dead drunk, we had to call a taxi. New customers were an exciting mystery to unravel. That trucker guy was wearing a nice suit, which was clearly making him uncomfortable. He was so nervous. Waiting for a date, probably? Kept touching his ring finger. The first date after a divorce, I bet! Poor thing, she never showed up.
After dinner, she would play the piano, and I would sit in her room and read. Then we would watch TV together.
One day I woke up and didn't smell coffee. The kitchen was empty. I knocked on my mom's door.
'Hey, mom! Are you there? Have you overslept?'
She opened the door, a sleepy, guilty look on her face.
'What time is it? Oh, oh no! I'll be late for work!
I didn't give it a second thought.
Next week, I woke up to the smell of burnt bacon. I heard her voice, muffled and angry.
'Shit! Fuck!'
I don't think I've ever heard her curse before. Surprised and a little disturbed, I climbed out of bed and came to the kitchen.
'Mom? What's wrong?'
She was standing near the stove, face red and full of fury. The breakfast was burned and looked unsalvageable. She looked at me, and for a fraction of a moment, I thought that she didn't recognize me. Then her face smoothed, and she smiled.
'Sorry, honey. Looks like your clumsy mom had destroyed the breakfast. How about some cereal?'
'Yeah, sure. You okay?'
She laughed.
'Just a little bit embarrassed, that's all.'
Two days later, she started struggling with her music. I was deep in the fantasy novel I had been reading at the time. It took me a minute to realize that she was out of tune, a few false notes somehow finding their way in her usually perfect rendition. I looked up from the book.
'Hard day at work?'
She stopped and looked at her hands, frowning.
'Yeah. Yeah, I guess. Got tired a little.'
She continued playing, finding her way back to the melody.
The next day, she didn't. The music eluded her, notes coming too fast, or a little bit too slow. After ten minutes, she closed the piano, irritated.
'What the hell is wrong with me today. Growing old, are we?'
She wasn't even forty, and looked amazing for her age.
I smiled.
'You mean ancient?'
Mom gave me a disapproving look
'Mocking the elderly? I raised you better, young man!'
That was the last good day we had. The next evening, I got scared for the first time.
She couldn't catch the rhythm, again. But this time, she didn't stop playing. Instead, she kept at it, stubborn, trying to force her way to the music. The notes she played were false and mismatched.
'Mom, give it a rest. You're too hard on yourself.'
She didn't give any sign that she heard me. She kept trying, and trying, and trying. Brow furrowed, a corner of her mouth twisted down.
That's when I became very, very afraid.
She finally stopped, after several hours, and just set there for some time, shoulders cast down. Then she gave the piano a little kick, and said in a quiet, angry voice:
'Fucking thing is out of tune.'
She stood up and went to sleep without giving me a look.
The next morning, she overslept. I sat in the kitchen, waiting. Counting minutes. An hour passed by. Her shift started. Sun slowly climbed up. Finally, the door to her room opened, and she came out, frowning, her hair a mess. She looked at me, then at the clock.
'Why didn't you wake me up?'
'Mom...'
'I missed work!'
'Mom...'
'What's wrong with you?!'
She looked at me, furious. Then a sudden realization came to her face.
'Why aren't you at school?'
'Mom, we need to...'
'Are you skipping class, Matt?! What the hell! Get dressed immediately!'
'But...'
'I said IMMEDIATELY, Matthew!'
I gave up. I took a coward's way out. I listened to her, like I always did before. I went to school, and she went to work, desperately late.
That day, she got fired.
She didn't tell me how it happened. When I came back home, half-dead from exhaustion, still smelling of the chlorine, she was already there, sitting at the kitchen table in her waitress uniform, a blank expression on her face.
'Mom? You're home already? Did they let you finish early?'
She looked at me, expressionless.
'I don't work there anymore.'
'What? What happened?'
She was silent for a minute or two. When she finally spoke, her voice sounded distant. She said:
'I'm hungry.'
#
That day, I lay awake all night, not letting the word 'Disease' enter my mind. It was hard, but I was skilled in bending my mind. Separating it into partitions. Opening it, closing it down. Spinning dozens of Affects in it. Lying to the PA with my words, with my body, with my soul. I was such a good liar, I even knew how to fool myself.
I cried in the darkness, biting my pillow. I lay paralyzed. I tossed. I went to the bathroom, and threw up, pain shuddering my chest, bitter bile on my tongue. I sat on the bathroom floor, shaking.
I used my Ability to levitate above the floor.
I used my Ability to become blind.
I used it to crush any sensation I had.
I floated in the darkness, silence, absence.
I tried to stop time, and couldn't.
Time has come for us, and I needed to be. Something. Something not broken. Effective.
When the morning came, I was... not calm, but hollow. Hollow enough to function.
#
She became worse after that. With each day, worse. She became bad at taking care of herself. I had to remind her to eat, to dress. I combed her hair, played piano for her. Desperate. She tried to play, too. She was happy playing, but her music was a terrible cacophony of disjointed noise. She didn't understand. She liked it.
I forged a note from her that got me out of school. Every time I went out, I was panicking, afraid to leave her alone. Still, I had to. I had to feed us, to take care of things.
One day I came back to find her covered in blood. She sliced her hand open with a kitchen knife and watched the blood flow, smiling curiously. Fascinated. The seizures came next, her brain misfiring, sending false sensations of grotesque pain to her body. She screamed, wailed in agony, thrashed. I had to hold her, had to restrain her, cover her mouth, afraid that the neighbors will hear and call the police. My clothes were soaked in her sweat, hands dirty with the saliva streaming down her chin.
Nothing breaks your heart like seeing your parent in tears, utterly broken. Reduced to a small, powerless thing, the opposite of what they are supposed, are meant to be. Helpless. Weak. Diminished.
And the more you love them, the more it hurts.
I loved her so, so much.
She was becoming dangerous. She was losing control of her Ability, breaking things. Trying to break herself, break me. But I was stronger than her, thank God. I've become skillful in suppressing the Ability. Sensing it, predicting it. Drowning her Affects with mine, two for every one she threw, three, four, a dozen. Yet she was growing more powerful, harder to control, the Disease charging her Ability with madness and anger. I got bruised. I got cut. I got burned.
I remained effective.
There were good moments, too. Moments of lucidity. Sometimes she would smile, just like before. Sometimes we would talk and laugh. Sometimes I would wake up to the smell of fresh coffee.
On one of these days, she was calm and collected. She asked me to play her something on the piano, and although two of my fingers were broken, I did. She listened and smiled. Afterward, we drank tea, and talked. We remembered things, happy moments from the past. There were so many. We told each other jokes. We held each other's hands.
After a while, she said:
'I love you, Matthew.'
'I don't know if I will remember that, soon.'
'I'm not well. I'm not well at all.'
'Please, forgive me.'
'Please, forgive me, please, Matthew.'
'I need your to do something for me.'
'Something hard.'
... Soon, she was sick again. Angry again. Screaming again. I held her, held her tight, until she fell asleep.
I spent the night watching the first snow falling down.
In the morning, I called the PA.
#
They came soon. I heard the doorbell ring and opened it. There were two of them: our Protector and some man I didn't know.
The Protector looked around, noting the broken furniture, the bloodstains on the walls, the smell, and looked at me with frustration.
'Goddammit, boy.'
I woke her up. I help her get dressed, her best clothes. Simple and elegant, tidy.
'What's going on, Matthew?' She said, puzzled.
I gathered a travel bag. Fresh underwear. Comfy clothes. Warm pajamas and socks. Her favorite book. Her favorite CDs. A photo album of us, young and happy. A toothbrush and some toothpaste. A good towel.
'Matthew?'
I smiled reassuringly.
'Time to go, mom.'
In the hall, she noticed the Protectors and stopped, unsure.
'Matthew? Who are these people?'
She looked so lost. So small.
'They are going to take care of you, mom. Everything is going to be okay.'
I put her warm coat on her, tears streaming down my face, and hugged her.
She whispered.
'I don't understand what's happening.'
I leaned back, looked at her, smiling through the tears.
'I know. It's okay. I love you, mom.'
She smiled shyly.
'I love you too.'
I gave her the bag, and they took her away.
I felt like something incomprehensibly large had died inside of me. I was suddenly so heavy, and weak. I went to her room, every step a struggle, and stopped near the window, using the piano to support me.
Far below, I saw them leading her to a black SUV. She was a small spot in the whiteness of the snow. Grey skirt, deep blue coat. Black hair. Travel bag in one hand. She was looking around, scared.
They put her in the car and drove away.
That was the last time I saw her.