Two Little Letters

As she lay in my arms, like an ice cube, stone cold and blue. I could only think about myself not her but myself. She was in so much pain and so confused, it was the M.S. I had to help her I had to end it for her.
I am sixteen, have committed euthanasia on my own mother, rejected by my own father, bullied by many and the only person I can talk to is my nine year old sister who doesn’t understand me. There is my counsellor.
Natural causes that’s what they say she died of, hospitals always get it wrong, to cover up where or if they have made a mistake.
As I stumbled groggily down the stairs, I could hear the echoes of a not so distant argument between Dad and my sister Steph.
As I walked into the empty living room echoes became louder as I moved closer. There he stood the man who brought me up; a tuff of grey hair lay upon his sharp square head, his bright green eyes glaring like car head lights and his vicious smile which he inherited from the devil.
Steph was crying in the corner of the kitchen. Dad had never spent any time with me and Steph, he could never understand us, only Mum.
The thing was, Steph was doing no wrong, actually she was trying to help Dad, to get her breakfast ready, and how was she to know the cap off the milk was loose?
His eyes were fixed to the milk; the thin, white liquid dripping down the kitchen counter on its own little journey, the droplets hit the floor. Dad’s reaction was written all over his face.
I grasped Steph and threw her out of the room, I know how Dad can be, and I didn’t want her to see that vicious side of him. I herd his raging vocals coming from the kitchen, “That’s the last thing you will do, to walk away from me.”
As the day crumbled away, I sat at my desk in the crowded cell with my inmates leering at me. Every time I gave the correct answer a pencil would hit me in the head like an arrow trying to kill. My teacher was no better either, treating me like a dog “Sit, go fetch, beg” she hurled the abuse at me.
It was time for me to get some help; I had to stop thinking that I killed my Mum. It was time to see my counsellor.
I walked into her room, at a glance I could see her there; big green eyes like marbles, long flowing ‘Rapunzel’ locks and sitting patiently on her perfectly rounded nose were her most intelligent leopard print spectacles. I knew she was twenty four and too old for me but I can look just not touch.
I told her everything, she wasn’t shocked like most people but then again she wasn’t most people. Most people judge me; as if I was peculiar, different and secluded. When she talks to me it’s as if my problems are washed away by her cleansing voice.
Once, I talked to her about Dad. “He’s like a cat; innocent at times but when you slightly annoy it he pounces. That’s when I become distraught.”
Her facial expressions highlighted that she understood me, she spoke in a soft voice, “You seem to keep it bottled up, but you need to let it out; to me.”
I took her advice, I talked to her about Mum and my situation, I couldn’t handle it anymore. I flew through the door and started building a river, of tears.
Slam, Dad woke up, argued that he was disappointed in me and how I handled it this morning with the milk.
“No point crying over spilt milk” I sarcastically replied.
“Don’t you dare speak to me like that my son”
“Pardon? That’s the first time I’ve herd you call me your son.”
“I can’t deal with you when you’re like this”
I ran up the stairs, the atmosphere was too tense for me. My decision was final, he rejects me; it’s time for him to taste his own medicine. My wardrobe stood there like always but this time it was different; it stood there like a cheap chocolate Easter egg, with its hollow centre. All of my excuses for clothes were emptied into my night blue holdall.
“Goodbye father”, I shouted to him as I strode out of the door. I saw his peering eyes glaring through the vomit coloured curtains, despair was written all over his face. The only problem was: where was I going to go? Grandmas!
Grandma’s house was a small semidetached in the countryside. She always told me how the noise and pollution affected her hearing aid. She continuously greeted me with a smile and the familiar “Oh haven’t you grown?” which I always sarcastically smiled at.
At the age of seventy five she was still running round the house baking and cooking something mouth watering. Granddad sat in his chair fighting with ’Inspector Morse’. Gran looked at me with a glint in her eye and whispered softly in my ear “He’s getting old and so am I we won’t be around for much longer, look after yourself and Millie and Jess”
Millie and Jess were her two fat, rag doll cats that sat by the door. Two weeks after, no communication with Dad or Steph, it was heartbreaking to tell him but Gran had died. I had to let him know.
After this Granddad was driven into a Old peoples home. The shock had confused him so much.
Five years had passed, living on my own without any communication from my family, maybe the odd text or two but nothing much. I had something to tell them but I couldn’t put my self up to it. I sent a text to Steph saying this:
“Hospital, 5.00”
I queried whether to send it at first but then my trembling hands slipped.
“Sent”, ran across the white screen. I never thought before how one text could change someone’s life until now.
The day came: as I held the appointment slip in my sweaty hands I could only think about Steph whether she would come or not.
I walked along the stretching corridor and I walked into the light. My life was over as I heard the nurse say; “I have your results” The words rippled from her soft mouth. “Finigan Hanigan, 21, the test results read positive.”
My world crumbled down on me, what was I going to do, who was going to help? But then I herd a faint blur in the distance. “Finigan Finigan it is me Steph, I have come to help, what is the matter.”
Two little letters, that was my answer: M.S.
Her possessions crowded my two bed roomed flat: straightners here, foundation there and what the hell do you use an epilator for? I don’t think she knew how grateful I was for her help. I knew that she had put everything on the line for me, her school, career, family and life.
As the days passed, I lay on the sofa staring at the TV for hours on end, I thought to myself this is my life, what have I done to deserve this then it slipped my mind for a second, I killed my mother. This is how god has punished me. I saw Steph glancing at me now and then. Then she ran into her room. I could not understand why she was crying as I was so ill, was I that unbearable.
I burst out crying many nights, I cried myself to sleep. Many nights I woke up at one or two in the morning thinking, I can’t move, who am I? One horrible day I even forgot Steph’s name.
I herd her one day, I picked the phone up to call for a pizza. My legs froze, I collapsed on the floor and I lay there for many minutes with out any communication. Steph was on the phone I could hear her talking on the phone about me.
“It is hard for me seeing him there still like he’s dead, then I think he will be one soon I can’t help but getting upset.”
If she only knew how true she was.
The day came; the clouds covered the sky like a blind, you could feel the moisture in the air. I knew something would happen, I could tell.
I respected her so much, because I knew how she felt, because I had dealed with mum when she was like this.
I walked into the kitchen where she was sitting with her tea. I approached her slowly, my legs had stiffened, my jaw was trembling, I was a wreck.
“Will…you…k…ill…me!” I slurred out to her.
The china cup smashed to the floor; her face was a ‘Mona Lisa’.

As he lay in my arms, like an ice cube, stone cold and blue, I could only think about him, not myself but him. He was in so much pain and so confused. I had to help him… but I couldn’t end it for him. I am now sixteen have not committed euthanasia, rejected by my father, bullied by many and the only person I can talk to is my counsellor.
Natural cause’s that’s what they say.