Writing 101, Day Four: Write about loss and make it a three-post series.
“Fatty… Fatty! Wake up!”
He stirs to the voice of panic. What could possibly be the reason for this disruption? Just earlier today, he sat for his ‘Cambridge Advanced Level Mathematics’ paper, a national examination that decides his odds of a University education. He is refraining from overanalysing his performance on that paper, but he is mostly on the fence about it. Who is he kidding? He is terrible at Mathematics. His mental sums skills still involve his ten fingers at times. Even so, he is just about chipper today as he was able to visit his grandmother at the hospital after his paper. She was warded due to heart palpitation, but that afternoon she seemed just fine. She had even welcomed him with a warm embrace. He spent about two hours in her room, chatting with her on life and whatnot. His lack of sufficient sleep over the past few nights caught up to him, so he kissed Mimmi’s cheek and went home for a well-deserved nap.
He briefly opens his eyes. The fluorescent light overwhelms his vision, forcing his eyelids shut again. This time, he allows his eyes to adapt to the harsh lighting before opening them again. Confusion replaces his countenance as he tries to process his sister’s expression. She looks harrowed, and it slowly infects him.
“Hurry up! We need to go now. Your father is waiting downstairs. Mimmi’s in critical condition. Faster!!”
His pupil dilates. A jolt runs through his nervous system. He scrambles out of bed, grabbing his tee-shirt and shorts along with him. He awkwardly dresses himself as he hurries out the door.
“Can you drive faster!!” He yells at his father.
His breaths are shallow. His pulse strikes his temples repeatedly. He wishes he had taken his car instead. At least behind the wheel, he could have been maintaining a sliver of control.
He fights the urge to break into a sprint. He settles for a fast walk. His steps reverberate around the corridor as he rushes to get to the door where Mimmi is. A pair of strong arms grabs hold of him. He realises that he cannot step beyond the door. He then plasters his face against the tiny transparent panel on the door.
His heart nearly stops. The monitors in the room are tripping badly. There is a flashing light above a cluster of people. He sees a lady holding a mask-like apparatus over Mimmi’s nose and mouth. She squeezes the attached bag at regular intervals. A man stands over Mimmi, pummelling her chest with his palms repeatedly. He barely processes the things transpiring before him. He merely stands rooted to the foot of the door. Internally, he screams, “Don’t leave me! Not now, not ever!”