Post by Archagon on Nov 12, 2003 22:40:16 GMT -5
The rain is sending messages from the night sky. Drip, drip, drip, drip...some sort of celestial morse code. Who knows what it's saying?
One person does, and she is but 8 years old. Her cold, clammy arms recline upon the bedsheets of her sickly-yellow lighted chamber. Around her sit three people - her mother, weeping rhythmically, like the rain, into her handkerchief; her father, expression of utmost despair on his face, his hands cold; and her little brother, tugging on Papa's sleeve, demanding nothing.
She is dying of cancer.
She understands that her time has come. But not much more. She does not want these people she loves so much to be so sad. She wants to reach out, she wants to hug them, she wants to smile and watch them smile back, to feel their touch upon her soft skin, their piercing touch of love...but ever time she tries to get up, an incredible, electrical jolt fills her body and she collapses in pain. Only her weak little arm is left standing, feeling something that is not there.
Papa catches it. A tear moistens his cheeck, crawls away, and disappears.
Mother's tightened face appears over her handkerchief. "S...s...stacey..." she utters, and collapses into wailing once again with a heartbreaking moan.
How Stacey longs to touch her mother's trembling hand. How she yearns to speak softly, "Don't cry, Mommy. Please don't cry." Alas, all she can do is weakly touch her icy finger to her mother's skin. Mother, taking her hand as if it were a fragile china figurine, fondles it close to her heart.
Drip, drip, drip, drip...Stacey can hear the rain. It's calling to her. She feels her breathing dwindle. Her heart slows down, then skips a beat, then stops altogether. Her pretty little eyes close...
And in her last moment, she sees their faces, desparate for a solution, disbelieving, misearable, looking for an answer in the heavenly raindrops leaving shattered memories upon their window...
Drip, drip, drip, drip.
One person does, and she is but 8 years old. Her cold, clammy arms recline upon the bedsheets of her sickly-yellow lighted chamber. Around her sit three people - her mother, weeping rhythmically, like the rain, into her handkerchief; her father, expression of utmost despair on his face, his hands cold; and her little brother, tugging on Papa's sleeve, demanding nothing.
She is dying of cancer.
She understands that her time has come. But not much more. She does not want these people she loves so much to be so sad. She wants to reach out, she wants to hug them, she wants to smile and watch them smile back, to feel their touch upon her soft skin, their piercing touch of love...but ever time she tries to get up, an incredible, electrical jolt fills her body and she collapses in pain. Only her weak little arm is left standing, feeling something that is not there.
Papa catches it. A tear moistens his cheeck, crawls away, and disappears.
Mother's tightened face appears over her handkerchief. "S...s...stacey..." she utters, and collapses into wailing once again with a heartbreaking moan.
How Stacey longs to touch her mother's trembling hand. How she yearns to speak softly, "Don't cry, Mommy. Please don't cry." Alas, all she can do is weakly touch her icy finger to her mother's skin. Mother, taking her hand as if it were a fragile china figurine, fondles it close to her heart.
Drip, drip, drip, drip...Stacey can hear the rain. It's calling to her. She feels her breathing dwindle. Her heart slows down, then skips a beat, then stops altogether. Her pretty little eyes close...
And in her last moment, she sees their faces, desparate for a solution, disbelieving, misearable, looking for an answer in the heavenly raindrops leaving shattered memories upon their window...
Drip, drip, drip, drip.