crossmyheartandhope (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
crossmyheartandhope) wrote2022-03-10 03:22 pm
crossmyheartandhope) wrote2022-03-10 03:22 pm
Entry tags:
Memory 35: Rot
The walls are plastered with posters for monster movies and cartoons, tilted at odd angles. The comforter on the bed is dark blue, covered in blocky grey robots with wide eyes and pincer hands.
Hurricane is lying on top of it, flat on his back and staring up at the ceiling. His curtains are pulled closed, and the afternoon sun drifts in underneath them, catching dust motes in swirls and eddies.
For a long time, the scene doesn’t change; the ceiling stays the same, for maybe an hour, or two, or four.
A couple of times, he opens his mouth, like he means to say something – closes it again, and doesn’t, in the end.
The little beam of light has disappeared by the time he finally props himself up on one elbow and turns toward the door.
“Ma?” he calls, voice raised so that it will carry down the hall. It’s a much younger voice; it belongs to a child of about ten years. “You awake?”
There’s no answer.
From the new angle, he can see the pair of crutches that leans up against the side of the bed. The bedside table is a disaster zone of action figures and model robots, but tucked in among the toys is an empty glass and an orange bottle of prescription medication.
“Ma?” says Jacob again.
Nothing. He can see a slice of the living room through his open doorway: a sleek black couch and a holo-screen tv mounted on the wall.
No one’s out there. Nothing moves.
Jacob takes a breath in and lets it out slow.
He sits up, with effort – winces, and bites down on his lip, waiting for the pain to pass. He reaches for the crutches, a little awkward, and maneuvers himself to the edge of the bed. Then he breathes for a couple of seconds, bracing himself, and clambers his way up to his feet.
It’s hard, still, getting around with the crutches. He keeps trying to step down with a right leg that isn’t there.
The walk to the kitchen is slow and kind of wobbly, and when he gets there, he leans against the counter, trying to pull himself together.
Away down the hall, no lights are on. His ma's door is closed.
Jacob glances away again, back toward the kitchen – bites at his lip, leans hard against the counter, and reaches forward to open the fridge.
There's a whole lot of nothing. The shelves are clean and white, gleaming plastic.
There's a bottle of ketchup. There's a couple of packets of soy sauce from a takeout place.
There's a half-gallon of milk, from back before Jacob went into the hospital – from back before everything.
He doesn't have to check to know it's bad by now.
Jacob wonders, with a sinking sensation somewhere in his stomach, what his ma's been eating all this time. He catches sight of something in the crisper drawer – levers himself down, awkward, to hands and knee so he can check.
There's a tupperware container inside, filled with something dark.
Jacob works it out of the drawer and sets it on the kitchen floor – flips up the tabs holding the lid on. Immediately, he wishes he hadn't; the smell is sharp and strong, rot so overwhelming he gags and scrambles to put the lid back on. He recognizes it by the peanuts; it's the stir fry he made for his ma, back before he went to go visit –
He tamps down on that train of thought, hard – snaps the lid back into place and just sits on the floor for a long couple of seconds, staring down at the container, eyes stinging and vision blurred.
He ought to dump the leftovers. He ought to wash the container and stick it back in the cabinet where it belongs. But he's hardly done anything, and he's already so tired.
With shaking hands, he sticks the tupperware back into the drawer and slides it closed again.
Then he scoots back far enough to close the fridge door and, with some difficulty, manages to lever himself back up to standing.
The bottom cabinet, where they kept the canned stuff, is empty. Jacob ought to know; he had the last thing of Spaghettios yesterday, sitting on the couch, straight out of the can.
He's pretty sure there's cereal left, though, in the cabinet up above the stove. Ma's always hated the sugary stuff he goes for, so the chances that she ate it while he was gone are pretty slim.
He hasn't bothered checking, yet. Before, it was easy enough to climb up on the counter and fish around in the higher cabinets; they don't have a whole lot of storage space, and he's always been light on his feet. Now the cabinet above the stove seems like an impossible finish line, somewhere way off in the distance.
Jacob stands there for a couple of long seconds, hesitating.
He glances away down the hall again, toward where his ma's door is closed, there in the dark.
Then he takes a breath in, and he braces his palms on the countertop, and he heaves.
It's not as hard as he expects, getting up. He's off-balance, and he's tired too fast, but before long he's scrabbled up into place, and he's kneeling there on the counter.
Actually standing's going to be harder, down one leg, with no crutches up here to help him, but he thinks – he's pretty sure he's got this.
Jacob pulls a lower cabinet open – loops his hand in, there among the dishes, to take hold. He reaches over with the other hand to press it flat to the top of the refrigerator, and he gets his remaining foot up under him. Then he pulls.
He wobbles, but he gets there, bare foot flat on the counter, holding onto the cabinet for dear life. When he's upright again, he grins down at the room at large – laughs, breathless and a little pleased.
"'S not so hard," he says, and he lets go of the fridge to reach out and pull open the cabinet above the stove.
He can't quite reach – shifts his weight a little, and lets go of the other cabinet, just for a second, to reposition himself. He shifts again, awkward, and leans over a bit farther.
It's an inch too far. For an endless second, Jacob wavers, off-balance – goes to put his foot down to catch himself.
There isn't a foot there anymore.
He yelps – shoots a hand out to scrabble for the lower cabinet – catches it with the tips of his fingers, on the way down.
There’s a single, heart-stopping second, teetering on the edge of the kitchen counter, when he thinks he might still be able to catch himself. Then the moment's past, and he's falling backward.
Jacob hits the floor hard – smacks down on his side and bites straight through his lip. He hardly even notices the taste of the blood over the pain in the stump of his leg. The impact jolts it like someone set live wires into the flesh; he shrieks and curls in around it, incapacitated.
He heaves in huge, gulping breaths; he retches with the pain, pressing his forehead against the cool tile of the floor. His head and arm are throbbing from the fall, and he's getting blood all over, and he can't bring himself to care.
The agony pulls back slow, an inch at a time – leaves him curled loosely on his side, panting, eyes half closed. His cheeks are wet, and the pain's like a blanket over the top of him, heavy and suffocating, but at least it's not everything anymore.
He stays there, for a little while.
It seems easier to stay. Maybe if he waits long enough, his mother will come out to see what the noise was, and he won't have to walk back to his room.
So he waits until the light coming in the windows is the washed out grey of evening. He waits until it's night, and the only light is the fluorescent glow of the digital clock, telling him it's nearly 8 pm.
Then he pulls himself up off the floor.
He crawls over to his crutches, and he climbs back up to his feet.
He drinks a glass of water, and he washes his face in the sink. He wets a paper towel and cleans the blood off the floor.
Then he makes his way back down the hall to his room.
Hurricane is lying on top of it, flat on his back and staring up at the ceiling. His curtains are pulled closed, and the afternoon sun drifts in underneath them, catching dust motes in swirls and eddies.
For a long time, the scene doesn’t change; the ceiling stays the same, for maybe an hour, or two, or four.
A couple of times, he opens his mouth, like he means to say something – closes it again, and doesn’t, in the end.
The little beam of light has disappeared by the time he finally props himself up on one elbow and turns toward the door.
“Ma?” he calls, voice raised so that it will carry down the hall. It’s a much younger voice; it belongs to a child of about ten years. “You awake?”
There’s no answer.
From the new angle, he can see the pair of crutches that leans up against the side of the bed. The bedside table is a disaster zone of action figures and model robots, but tucked in among the toys is an empty glass and an orange bottle of prescription medication.
“Ma?” says Jacob again.
Nothing. He can see a slice of the living room through his open doorway: a sleek black couch and a holo-screen tv mounted on the wall.
No one’s out there. Nothing moves.
Jacob takes a breath in and lets it out slow.
He sits up, with effort – winces, and bites down on his lip, waiting for the pain to pass. He reaches for the crutches, a little awkward, and maneuvers himself to the edge of the bed. Then he breathes for a couple of seconds, bracing himself, and clambers his way up to his feet.
It’s hard, still, getting around with the crutches. He keeps trying to step down with a right leg that isn’t there.
The walk to the kitchen is slow and kind of wobbly, and when he gets there, he leans against the counter, trying to pull himself together.
Away down the hall, no lights are on. His ma's door is closed.
Jacob glances away again, back toward the kitchen – bites at his lip, leans hard against the counter, and reaches forward to open the fridge.
There's a whole lot of nothing. The shelves are clean and white, gleaming plastic.
There's a bottle of ketchup. There's a couple of packets of soy sauce from a takeout place.
There's a half-gallon of milk, from back before Jacob went into the hospital – from back before everything.
He doesn't have to check to know it's bad by now.
Jacob wonders, with a sinking sensation somewhere in his stomach, what his ma's been eating all this time. He catches sight of something in the crisper drawer – levers himself down, awkward, to hands and knee so he can check.
There's a tupperware container inside, filled with something dark.
Jacob works it out of the drawer and sets it on the kitchen floor – flips up the tabs holding the lid on. Immediately, he wishes he hadn't; the smell is sharp and strong, rot so overwhelming he gags and scrambles to put the lid back on. He recognizes it by the peanuts; it's the stir fry he made for his ma, back before he went to go visit –
He tamps down on that train of thought, hard – snaps the lid back into place and just sits on the floor for a long couple of seconds, staring down at the container, eyes stinging and vision blurred.
He ought to dump the leftovers. He ought to wash the container and stick it back in the cabinet where it belongs. But he's hardly done anything, and he's already so tired.
With shaking hands, he sticks the tupperware back into the drawer and slides it closed again.
Then he scoots back far enough to close the fridge door and, with some difficulty, manages to lever himself back up to standing.
The bottom cabinet, where they kept the canned stuff, is empty. Jacob ought to know; he had the last thing of Spaghettios yesterday, sitting on the couch, straight out of the can.
He's pretty sure there's cereal left, though, in the cabinet up above the stove. Ma's always hated the sugary stuff he goes for, so the chances that she ate it while he was gone are pretty slim.
He hasn't bothered checking, yet. Before, it was easy enough to climb up on the counter and fish around in the higher cabinets; they don't have a whole lot of storage space, and he's always been light on his feet. Now the cabinet above the stove seems like an impossible finish line, somewhere way off in the distance.
Jacob stands there for a couple of long seconds, hesitating.
He glances away down the hall again, toward where his ma's door is closed, there in the dark.
Then he takes a breath in, and he braces his palms on the countertop, and he heaves.
It's not as hard as he expects, getting up. He's off-balance, and he's tired too fast, but before long he's scrabbled up into place, and he's kneeling there on the counter.
Actually standing's going to be harder, down one leg, with no crutches up here to help him, but he thinks – he's pretty sure he's got this.
Jacob pulls a lower cabinet open – loops his hand in, there among the dishes, to take hold. He reaches over with the other hand to press it flat to the top of the refrigerator, and he gets his remaining foot up under him. Then he pulls.
He wobbles, but he gets there, bare foot flat on the counter, holding onto the cabinet for dear life. When he's upright again, he grins down at the room at large – laughs, breathless and a little pleased.
"'S not so hard," he says, and he lets go of the fridge to reach out and pull open the cabinet above the stove.
He can't quite reach – shifts his weight a little, and lets go of the other cabinet, just for a second, to reposition himself. He shifts again, awkward, and leans over a bit farther.
It's an inch too far. For an endless second, Jacob wavers, off-balance – goes to put his foot down to catch himself.
There isn't a foot there anymore.
He yelps – shoots a hand out to scrabble for the lower cabinet – catches it with the tips of his fingers, on the way down.
There’s a single, heart-stopping second, teetering on the edge of the kitchen counter, when he thinks he might still be able to catch himself. Then the moment's past, and he's falling backward.
Jacob hits the floor hard – smacks down on his side and bites straight through his lip. He hardly even notices the taste of the blood over the pain in the stump of his leg. The impact jolts it like someone set live wires into the flesh; he shrieks and curls in around it, incapacitated.
He heaves in huge, gulping breaths; he retches with the pain, pressing his forehead against the cool tile of the floor. His head and arm are throbbing from the fall, and he's getting blood all over, and he can't bring himself to care.
The agony pulls back slow, an inch at a time – leaves him curled loosely on his side, panting, eyes half closed. His cheeks are wet, and the pain's like a blanket over the top of him, heavy and suffocating, but at least it's not everything anymore.
He stays there, for a little while.
It seems easier to stay. Maybe if he waits long enough, his mother will come out to see what the noise was, and he won't have to walk back to his room.
So he waits until the light coming in the windows is the washed out grey of evening. He waits until it's night, and the only light is the fluorescent glow of the digital clock, telling him it's nearly 8 pm.
Then he pulls himself up off the floor.
He crawls over to his crutches, and he climbs back up to his feet.
He drinks a glass of water, and he washes his face in the sink. He wets a paper towel and cleans the blood off the floor.
Then he makes his way back down the hall to his room.