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Scarlett

I sit beside the hospital bed, my fingers entwined with Mom's, her hand so frail it feels like crumpled paper in mine. The constant beeping of machines fills the sterile room, a morbid symphony that has become the backdrop to our lives these past few months. They hum and whir, impersonal witnesses to Mom's battle—a fight I'm afraid she's losing.

"Miss Wood?" The doctor's voice is soft but it cuts through the mechanical noise like a knife. I look up, and his eyes hold a sorrow that makes my stomach drop.

“Is everything alright doctor?”

“The results are out.” He doesn't have to say it; I already know. But he does anyway. "The cancer has spread too far. Continuing or scaling up treatment at this point would be futile. I’m afraid there is nothing more we can do."

The words echo in my head like a cruel chant. 'Nothing more we can do.' My heart feels like it's being squeezed, every beat a struggle as if it's trying to pump concrete through my veins instead of blood. I blink rapidly, refusing to let tears fall. Not here.

"Thank you, doctor," I manage to say, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me. He nods a silent gesture of condolence, before leaving us alone again.

Mom sleeps on, oblivious to the sentence that has just been passed. I watch her chest rise and fall, each breath a precious rhythm. She has limited time now. How does one measure the life of the person who gave you everything? In days, hours, minutes?

I lean closer to her, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. "I'm here, Mom." It's a promise, a vow. I will not let her face this alone. Not now, not ever. She stirs slightly and opens her eyes, and for a moment, our green eyes meet—hers clouded with pain, mine fierce with unshed tears.

"Thank you, sweet pea," she whispers, her voice a mere wisp of sound.

"I love you," I reply the familiar phrase a lifeline in this sea of uncertainty. I squeeze her hand, feeling the fragile bones beneath the skin, holding onto the connection between us for as long as I can. It's not enough. It will never be enough.

I lean back, the chair creaking under my weight, and memories flood unbidden. Sunlight dappling through the leaves, my father's laughter ringing in my ears as I soar higher and higher on the swings. "Look at you fly, Scar!" he'd call out, pride lacing every word.

"Be brave, my little bird," he used to say. But bravery feels like a distant concept, an unreachable star in a sky shrouded by the imminent truth waiting to happen.

My mind travels back to happy days. The scent of simmering tomato sauce wafts through my mind, rich and comforting. My mother's voice, a soft melody hovering over the bubbling pot, wraps around me. She hums an old tune—one I can't quite name but know by heart. Her hands move gracefully, chopping basil leaves that she grew on the windowsill. The green flecks fall like confetti into the red soup below.

"Scar, always add love to your cooking," she would say with a smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "It's the secret ingredient."

I cling to that memory, desperate to soak up the warmth it brings. The sterile hospital room fades, and for a moment, I'm back in our tiny kitchen, basking in the glow of her presence.

Ours had been a happy and content family. Dad had loved my mom fiercely. But that illusion was shattered with the echo of a knock—a sound that resonates deep in my bones. It's been years, yet the noise still sends a chill down my spine.

I see them again, two police officers standing at our door, hats in their hands, solemnity etched into their faces. They deliver the words that rip the fabric of our world to shreds.

"There's been an accident involving Mr Wood." The words hung heavy, stealing the air from my lungs.

"Is Daddy okay?" The question had tumbled from my ten-year-old lips, naive and hopeful.

Their silence was thunderous, confirming fears I hadn't even known to fear. Childhood innocence is gone in a breath. And just like that, we're adrift—my mother and I, clinging to each other in a sea of grief.

"Daddy's watching over us," she'd whisper when things went wrong, but even then, I could see the struggle in her eyes, the light dimming with each day he didn't come home.

"Be brave, my little bird," echoes in my head, not just my father's encouragement anymore, but a mantra—a plea to keep flying even when the sky falls.

The light in Mama's eyes, once bright and fierce, now flickers like a candle in the wind. I see it every time she tries to smile through the pain, every wince she thinks I don't notice. It's the same dimming light I saw years ago when we lost him—the man who was our rock, our laughter, our everything.

"Stay strong," she'd say, voice barely a whisper as she held me close, her arms trembling yet unyielding. And she did stay strong, for both of us, even when her shoulders slumped and her spirit seemed to crumble under the weight of his absence.

It's that fragile strength that binds us, a shared resolve to keep moving forward, one day at a time. She became my hero in those dark days, stitching together the remnants of our shattered life with quiet determination.

As the rhythmic beeping of the machines fills the silence between us, I fight back the tears threatening to spill over. Her breaths come slow, labored, each one a battle against the tide that threatens to pull her under.

My fingers tighten around hers, a lifeline connecting our fading hopes. "I'm here, Mom," I murmur, though she can't hear me over the sound of her struggle. But it's a promise, from the core of my being—a vow to remain steadfast, just as she has done for me all these years.

"Until the end," I whisper into the stillness, a silent oath that wraps around us, binding my heart to hers. The end may be inevitable, but so is my resolve to stand by her, to be the daughter she raised me to be—brave, loyal, and unwavering in love.

The chill of the room seeps into my bones, the sun dipping below the horizon and stretching shadows across the sterile walls. I shift in the chair that's been my nest for hours, muscles aching from the stillness, but leaving is not an option. She needs me—my voice, my presence, my strength.

"Remember the time we went apple picking, Mom?" My voice is a whisper meant only for her ears. "You laughed so hard when I nearly fell off the ladder. Said I had your grace."

A flutter of eyelids, weary but fighting to see me through the haze of painkillers. Her lips curve upwards, just a little, but it's enough. Enough to fuel my hope, to keep the memories flowing.

"We came home with more apples than we could ever eat." A chuckle escapes me, tinged with nostalgia. "You baked pies for a week straight. Our apartment smelled like cinnamon and love."

Her smile fades as she drifts back to sleep, but the brief connection ignites a spark within me. I hold onto it, letting it warm me against the creeping cold.

"Stay with me, Mama," I breathe, clinging to the precious moment, willing her to fight through another night. "Just a little longer." A single tear escapes and runs down my cheek.

I reach out, my fingers trembling slightly as I brush a stray lock of golden hair from her forehead. It's soft and still full of life, unlike the rest of this sterile room which reeks of antiseptics and despair. Her skin is warm under my touch, and for a moment, I let myself imagine it's just another day. That she'll open her eyes, smile, and tell me everything will be all right.

But the silence hangs heavy, and the truth claws at my throat, threatening to unleash the sobs I've been holding back. I can't cry. Not now. She needs me to be strong—to be the rock she's always been for me. My heart clenches, a silent scream in an ocean of quiet agony.

"Stay with me," I whisper, more to myself than to her. "Please."

The clock ticks on, each second elongated into an eternity. Time is both my enemy and my only companion as it inches forward, dragging me toward a future I can't bear to face. The thought of walking through life without her is like staring into an abyss. It's cold, vast, and empty.

What will I do when she's gone? Who will I be without the woman who shaped my world, and taught me how to love, and how to survive?

"Scar," she'd say, "you're made of tough stuff. Remember that. You are named for power and passion."

But I don't feel tough. I feel broken, shards of the girl I once was scattering with every labored breath she takes.

"Remember," I murmur, echoing her words, trying to convince myself. "Tough stuff."

As the hours drag on, the weight of impending loss is a tangible thing, pressing down on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I stare at the walls, at the machines, at her—my universe reduced to this small, dim room.

“I'm not ready.” I sob quietly. How can anyone ever be ready for this?

"Mom," I choke out, my voice steady though it feels like I'm falling apart inside. "I love you. Always."

And the night stretches before us—a vast, uncharted darkness that I must navigate. I hold her hand, anchoring myself in the present, in the love that ties us together.

"Always," I repeat, the word a lifeline in the growing dark.

A spasm of coughs tears through the silence, and jars me from my reverie. My mother's body convulses weakly, a sound and sight that claws at my heart with steel-tipped fingers. I fumble for the tissue, and swipe at my cheeks where tears carve silent rivers.

"Shh, mama, it's okay," I whisper, but my voice trembles like a leaf in the wind.

My hand finds hers again, skin so thin, every vein a blue roadmap to her weary heart. I cling to her, to this moment, as if I can anchor her to life, to me. But I also do not wish for her to keep suffering.

I lean in, lips close to her ear, breath hitching with unshed sobs. "You don't have to hold on for me," I say, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue. "I'll be okay."

Her eyes open, a flicker of the vibrant spirit she once was. She sees right through me—she always does. But she nods, giving me the unspoken permission I'm not sure I want.

"Promise me, Scarlett," her voice, a ghost of its former warmth, wraps around me. “Promise me that you will be okay.”

"Promise," I echo, though the word is a stone in my throat.

The night creeps on, casting shadows across the sterile walls of the hospital room. I remain glued to the chair beside her bed, the fabric imprinting its pattern onto my skin. The machines hum their monotonous lullaby, but I find no comfort in it, only a stark reminder of the fragility of life.

I reach for Mama's hand again, my own hands now steady, deliberately gentle. It feels like I'm cradling a fallen bird, so delicate, so close to slipping away. Her breaths come slowly, a metronome counting down the time we have left. I haven’t left her side in days, afraid that she would slip away when I’m not here.

I smooth back her hair, once fiery red, now dulled and thinned. It's like handling silk, each strand an echo of the vibrant woman who raised me with laughter and resilience. The woman who never gave up, even when the world turned dark.

"Remember the beach?" I ask, voice barely above a whisper. "You loved the sea. You said it made you feel free." My throat tightens at the memory; saltwater air, her laughter ringing over the waves.

The beeping of the heart monitor punctuates the silence, each beep a moment passing, a moment lost. I lean closer, my lips brushing her temple. She's so cold, and I want to wrap her in warmth, shield her from this chill that has nothing to do with the night.

Mom's chest rises and falls, each breath a whisper against the stillness. I stay, watching over her, the guardian now instead of the guarded. I let several happy memories wash over me, a cascade of moments that shaped my very being. I soak them in, hold them close, while outside the window, the city sleeps unaware of my struggle.

This vigil is mine alone, this final act of love. I am her daughter, her Scarlett thread, the one she poured her life into. And as the night deepens, I keep my watch steadfast, a watch over the love we share until dawn or until the universe decides it's time for her to rest.