After a long and tiring shift, I stood in front of the door and prepared myself for what was to come. I pushed open the door and immediately found the noise of my siblings and the familiar scent of spices welcoming me as I stepped into the house.
"Mum I am back" I shouted as I dropped my bags by the door.
"Hey lil bro, Welcome" Justin said from across the couch.
I gave a light nod in his direction as I walked through the house to the kitchen, knowing Mum would be there.
The kitchen was a flurry of activity. Mum, the ever-graceful multitasker, was at the heart of it all. With one hand, she stirred a pot that bubbled with promise, and with the other, she gently rocked the twins who were nestled in their bouncy seats on the countertop, their giggles blending with the sizzle of the pan.
"Ah, you're home!" she exclaimed, her face lighting up with relief . "Could you lend me a hand? The twins are getting fussy, and dinner won't cook itself."
I gave a fake smile, shrugging off the fatigue that clung to my shoulders. Slipping into the rhythm of a big brother, I scooped up one twin, cradling him in my arms as he cooed and reached for my face. With my free hand, I picked up the other twin and she smiled up at me.
Reaching the Sitting room I realize Justin is probably in his room because he is nowhere to be seen.
"Dinner's almost ready," Mum called out, her voice a melody above the clatter of pots and pans.
"Can you set the table, dear?" her question directed at me.
Nodding despite knowing fully well she couldn't see me, I dropped the twins carefully on the couch. I pulled out the placemats, arranging them neatly around our old oak table, each one accompanied by a gleaming set of cutlery. The glasses stood at attention like clear sentinels as I placed them above each plate.
"Dad, dinner's ready!" I hollered towards the living room, where the faint sounds of a football match played on the TV.
With a practiced hand, Mum began filling bowls with steaming food, stews rich with tomatoes and tender meat, and fluffy rice adorned with vibrant vegetables. One by one, she handed them to me, and I carried them to their rightful places on the table, forming a mosaic of home-cooked goodness.
As everyone began to take their seats, Dad with his weathered hands from a day's work, Justin with his ever-present grin, and the twins with their cherubic faces in their respective cradles, Mum placed the last dish in the center.
"Let's eat!" she declared.
But before I could join in the feast, Mum handed me feeding bottles. "Feed your little ones first," she said with a gentle smile that didn't quite reach her tired eyes.
So I sat, pushing the mouth of the bottles into eager mouths as Justin devoured his meal with gusto, oblivious to my pangs of hunger. Mum watched over us all, her gaze lingering on my brother and the twins with an affection that seemed as boundless as the ocean. She has never looked at me like that.
The dining room was alive with the soft hum of conversation as I slipped into my seat after feeding and burping the twins, the last to join the evening's gathering.
Mum and Dad were deep in discussion, their words weaving through the air like delicate threads, while Justin interjected with his own tales and triumphs. I listened for a moment, the rhythm of their voices a familiar melody.
With a hesitant breath, I waited for a pause, an opening to add my own voice to the chorus.
"Today at work…." I began, but like a leaf caught in a gust of wind, my words were swept away by another burst of conversation from across the table.
I tried again, a little louder this time. "I found this interesting…" But once more, my sentence hung unfinished, a bridge to nowhere as Mum asked Dad about his day and my brother laughed about something trivial.
The clinking of cutlery against plates filled the spaces where my words should have been. I felt like a ghost at my own family's table, seen but not heard, present but not acknowledged.
As the meal continued and the night deepened, I resigned myself to silence, savoring the flavors of each dish as if they could speak for me. The food was delicious, yet each bite was tinged with the bittersweet taste of invisibility. As the final echoes of dinner conversation faded away, the dining room began to empty, chairs scraping softly against the floor as my family dispersed, leaving behind a tableau of used plates and half-empty glasses. The remnants of our meal lay scattered across the table like the aftermath of a small storm. Mum lingered for a moment, wiping her hands on her apron as she surveyed the scene. Her eyes met mine, and in them, I saw the day's weariness mirrored my own.
"Could you clear the table and wash up before bed, dear?" she asked, her voice soft but carrying the weight of expectation.
I nodded, stifling a yawn that clawed its way up my throat. The fatigue from a long day's work hung on my shoulders like a heavy cloak, and the thought of facing the mountain of dishes felt like an insurmountable task.
With slow, reluctant movements, I began to gather the plates, piling them high in my arms as I carried them to the kitchen. The clatter of porcelain was a stark contrast to the quiet hum of the house settling down for the night.
The sink greeted me with its cold, metallic embrace as I turned on the tap, warm water cascading over my hands and breathing life into my tired limbs. One by one, I scrubbed at the dishes, each circular motion a small victory against the grime and remnants of sauce.
As I rinsed the last plate and placed it on the drying rack, the kitchen was clean once more, a silent witness to the day's end.
The door to my room clicked shut behind me, a soft declaration of solitude in the quiet house. The walls of my sanctuary stood silent, holding the secrets of my innermost thoughts like trusted confidants. I moved through the dimly lit space, each step a slow dance toward the refuge of my bed.
With a gentle sigh, I sank into the familiar embrace of my sheets, the fabric whispering against my skin like a comforting breeze. My headphones lay on the nightstand, their sleek form promising an escape from the world's noise. I reached for them, fitting them over my ears with a reverence reserved for sacred rituals.
The first notes of my playlist trickled into my consciousness, each song a thread in the tapestry of melodies that had become the soundtrack of my life. The music swelled, filling the room and my chest with its resonant beauty, carrying me away on waves of harmony and rhythm.
As the playlist unfolded, each track evoking memories and dreams, a single teardrop welled in the corner of my right eye. It lingered there for a heartbeat, a crystalline orb reflecting the soft glow of my bedside lamp.
And then it fell.
The tear traced a path down my cheek, a silent testament to the emotions that music could stir within me. A blend of joy and sorrow, hope and longing. It was a moment of pure vulnerability, a release that only the privacy of my room and the solace of my playlist could afford.
In that solitary tear lay the weight of the day's unspoken words and unacknowledged feelings, all set free by the gentle embrace of song.
Writer's Pov
In the sterile whiteness of the hospital room, time seemed to stand still. The relentless beeping of the heart monitor punctuated the silence, each spike in rhythm a sharp reminder of the fragility of life.
A boy who has been in coma for the past 1 year and not moved for the duration of his coma began to vibrate as the heart monitor lines began to quicken, spiking erratically as if in response to some unseen threat
His youthful face, a stark contrast to the tangle of tubes and wires that bound him to this realm of uncertainty, was now the face of discomfort as he continued vibrating.
The couple stood side by side, hands clasped in a grip that conveyed their shared fear and hope. Tears blurred their vision as the couple watched the medical team move with urgent precision, their faces set in determined concentration as they fought to bring their boy back from the precipice.
The hum of machinery and hushed voices of the doctors and nurses became a distant chorus, background noise to the couple.
"Please, not my child, not my only child" the wife whispered into the void, her words a silent prayer that seemed to echo off the walls.
She could only watch, a helpless spectator to the battle being waged for her son's life. Each passing second stretched into eternity, every high beat of his heart a cliffhanger in the story she never wanted to be part of.
In that room, amidst the chaos of saving grace, they stood united, a family holding onto hope as tightly as the couple held onto each other.