Because I'm an impatient ***, and because I'm having urges to drop this and just not release it, I want to do this now and one: satisfy A, and prevent B.
So, without further ado, the prologue and first chapter of my MayNoWriMo project, "Here Comes The Sun". Will update once a week, excluding this two-part initial release.
here comes the sun
Sarah Scott wasn’t feeling her best that night. But she had volunteered to do this so her daughters could have the movie night they had been promised: Christopher had gone against the idea, but had eventually conceded. That was, of course, what she had expected to happen. She knew her husband well enough.
She was a sufferer of chronic pain. Fibromyalgia was the name of the disease, something with causes that were “still being researched”, and all that bull hockey. The pulled muscle in her arm didn’t help either, from when she was being a moron: she tried to relive some of the old days, lifting up her son and trying to carry him to bed. The kid had gotten too heavy for her, especially with her in the physical shape she was in. She smiled slightly. She left her spot in her seat, walking over to the kitchen counter, reaching into the cupboard and pulling out a glass.
Of course, that walk hurt too. But she was used to that. She had consented to its existence tonight, instead of dulling it with the blackness of unconsciousness in sleep, so why should she complain? She filled the glass up with water, then walked back over to the kitchen table, opening up the bottle of pills. Narcotics were her savior usually, and so they would be again tonight. She poured the contents of the bottle that were left into her hand, and groaned audibly. So this was the last of it. She counted them. Six. She normally took three- but the pain was particularly bad, having kept her up for a day or two with discomfort. So she supposed she didn’t see the harm in taking a few extra so that when the kids and Christopher got home, she could ditch the watch-dog duty off onto her husband, then hopefully catch a Z or two that night.
She popped the pills and tossed back the water, setting the glass down and standing up again. She curved through the kitchen and toward the steps, walking up with slow, careful precision to minimize her suffering. Once at the top, she opened the first door to her left, only to spot the exact opposite of what she had expected to view; a bed with the blankets tossed up, sheets disheveled and a slight bit soaked. He had been sweating pretty heavily, apparently. She walked in the direction of the bathroom, figuring that it was probably the second best place.
She found the door open, and heard the sound of grunts and groans. She walked in to see Terrence, her oldest child and her only son, with his back hunched up and his head in the toilet. She walked over to him quickly, kneeling at his side, gently rubbing his back. She felt sorry for the child. She hated to see him like this, throwing up, sweating like a racehorse running in the summer, barely able to keep anything he put in him still in. The doctor had suggested bed rest and plenty of fluids. He couldn’t sleep peacefully, and he couldn’t drink anything without throwing up. She sighed, and when he was done, she pulled his head out and kissed him on the forehead. “Well, I guess we aren’t feeling much better?”
Terrence shook his head slowly. “...I think I’m dyin’, mama.”
She smiled softly at this statement, shaking her own head. She hugged him gently, and the two of them stood up afterward. “You’ll be just fine honey. Just a nasty stomach bug. Did ya know that your body’s natural defense against stomach bugs is barfing? Believe it or not, this actually means you’ll be getting better soon.”
She threw her good arm around her boy, not daring to risk using her bad arm to support him. He was a bit of a heavyset child; nowhere near in the “fat” range, but he wasn’t ever gonna be a model. She helped him toward his bedroom, tucking him in and kissing him on the forehead. He kissed her on the cheek.
“I love you, mama...” he groaned out.
“I love you too, Terrence. Now try and get some sleep. The best thing you can do when you get sick is...?”
“Sleep it off.”
She nodded firmly. “Very good! Remember, if you need anything at all, just call for me and I’ll be up quicker than a Yanma steppin’ ‘round in a desert on a sugar rush who had too much coffee to drink.”
He giggled at the analogy. He always did. “Okay, mama. I will.”
She turned off his light, then left the door cracked, as was the eleven year old’s preference. He didn’t like to admit it, but darkness still frightened him a bit. He never said it, but certain clues like the fact that whenever she DID shut the door, she later found it open again, either cracked or just full-on swung open.
She walked downstairs with pity and love in her heart for her child. She wondered how much fun the children were having. A lot, she hoped -- if the little brats went out and came back complaining, she would most definitely have to throttle them. She grinned, amused by her own little mental joke.
She sat down on one of the various chairs in the living room, near the coffee table. She picked up a pack of cigarettes that lay on there, as well as the lighter next to it. She picked out one of the long, white and brown tubes, pressing it into her lips and then lighting it up.
Such a stupid habit, she thought. She had only started it off of a dare when she was eleven, but the habit was addicting. She hadn’t been able to stop. She told herself consistently that she would quit some time soon, but soon kept getting later and later.
She tilted her head back and shut her eyes. She removed the cigarette from her mouth and held it in her hand for a moment, but realized that she was slipping away quickly. She couldn’t stop herself. She fell asleep right there on the chair, and Sarah Scott never woke up again.