Home

I've written this story about a thousand times over the last year - it was my standard Belonging Creative, so I've adapted it to every stimulus imaginable. This is, however, the only one I could find on my computer since I gave away my notes. The inspiration is Home.

Home

Tom’s room was packed up the day after he died. At exactly 7:32 pm, he stopped breathing. By 8:49 the next evening, I could hear the rustle of a nurse carefully placing each of his personal affects into a large cardboard box through the paper thin wall. I wonder what his family will do with them. Will they open the box? Will they go through each item, looking for things of use or sentimental value? Or will they just dump the box into the nearest charity bin they can find and be done with it.

They couldn’t. Shane would never let them.

I wish I could have been there for Shane when they told him. Or at least Angie. We were all told separately – Shane and his parents by a word perfect doctor, Angie by the rumours which breed in the hospital like a cancerous mould, me by the piercing sustained harmony of a metal box. He was still warm when I checked his pulse, even though the machine already told me he was gone.

Then again, what could I have done for Shane? Or Angie? Promised that everything would be alright? That I could be there for them, to look after them, to make sure nothing happened to them. I couldn’t promise any of that without lying through my teeth and both of them already know it.

The clock ticks over to 8:57. The click of the next door along shutting is clear as a gunshot.

I don’t hesitate, ignoring the nausea which always comes when I stand too quickly after treatment. My hand goes to my head, an old calming trick, only to find there is no hair to run it through.

I know every corridor of the hospital by now – mine is watched over by a nurse stand and whoever is on will see me. Then again, I’ve been here long enough for every nurse to know that I was Tom’s best friend. Angie and I used to sneak into his room every night, helping Shane climb in through the window so his parents didn’t know he spent every sleepless night with his brother in the cold, clinical ward.

No one reacts as I push open my door – was it always such an effort? – and sneak along the corridor towards Tom’s room.

No, not Tom’s room. Room 1427.

This was home. Once. Back to an empty pristine condition, it still can’t hide the marks of two years worth of late nights, early treatments and steel friendships. The window latch is loose and the frame slightly bent – Shane’s efforts over the years. The disinfectant they must have poured over every surface can’t mask the old smell – woollen blankets spread out across the floor, picnic style, piles of sugary and salty contriban all over the floor, the ridiculous Lynx body spray which almost sent Angie into the ER with an asthma attack.

This was home. Just not anymore.

I know the door is going to open before Angie even touches the handle. I know it’s her too – Shane would have knocked on the window and no one else has any interest in this room.

“Hey.” Her voice is weak – God, she’s weak, her body pumped full of toxic and radioactive substances in some perverted effort to make her healthy. Twelve years old and already faced with the reality that the next funeral might well be her own.

I don’t answer to her, just plonk myself down onto the plastic matress and look at her. She’s too young – I remember when she was admitted ten months ago, a soft young face marred by the very real idea that this may be her last admittance. When Tom and I ‘adopted’ her, she was terrified at first, certain our offers of sweets and piggy backs were designed in some way to hurt her. It took her more than a month to trust us, but when she did, it was all worth it. We read to her, taught her card games, treated her like the little sister neither of us had. Tom always did practical things, like bike riding, while I always had the little facts for every situation. I’d call it wisdom – Tom called it useless trivia. Shane loved her almost as much as us – if I didn’t know she could die any day, I’d have said they’d make a great couple some day. Then again, I’m only sixteen – my judgement might be a little off.

She sits next to me in the oppressive silence, both of us acutely aware of the yawning chasm left by Tom. She looks at me, almost expectant, wanting some form of reassurance, even if it is a lie.

“Got any wisdom for me?”

She rings her hands slightly, the only outward sign she ever displays of her intense intrinsic fears. Hope isn’t something she’s used to.

In Tom, she found it. So did Shane. And me.

“Yeah, I’ve got something. Something Tom,” my throat jams at his name and it takes a few attempts to keep speaking, “once told me.”

She’ll need me. I’ll need her. And whoever moves into this room next will need the both of us, in the same way we needed Tom.

“Life’s like riding a bike – to keep your balance, you have to keep moving.”

Angie can’t help laughing – neither can I. The advice is so futile, so insignificant, and so much what Tom would have said.

I walk her back to her room, where the luminous stars we stuck all over the ceiling glow brightly. I decide mentally that this is where we’ll have the new all night parties, without the old torches, just the glowing stars.

And maybe, just maybe, this can be home.