It took me days to get started on this story. Halfway through it, I wasn't exactly sure what to do with it. I flipped and flipped but in the end just decided to let it be. Well, I hope it finds you well.
The prompt is believe. The Ink Well is the culprit.
MOTHER
Today was what the woman would consider a good day. She loved it when it rained. It gave her little boy things to do. His drawing had a way of taking his mind off his failing heart. When she opened the balcony door and saw him sitting and staring straight ahead, her heart had skipped a bit. But she was glad it wasn't what she thought.
She remembered how hard it was the early days. She never left him alone. She thought he might decide to jump off the balcony one day. It was the worst thing a mother could think of her child but she couldn't help herself. What did he do wrong? Was it her fault? Did she eat something she shouldn't have when she was pregnant with him? He was twelve! A baby. Her baby. Why a heart condition at this age?
Watching him wither like a dry leaf everyday had been the most difficult thing. The house brought him peace. She could live with that. But she wanted more. She wanted her vibrant child back. She wanted him to play football again. She would give again to see the light back in his eyes. Was that too much to ask?
Three months ago, they were planning on how they would make the coming Christmas the best one yet. They always handed out gifts to homeless children every year. It was a habit her mother taught her, one which later turned into a tradition. A tradition she also thought her child. She wasn't sure she would have the strength to make other children happy while hers was dying. She was too old to believe in Santa but she wished he would grant her request.
--
SON
It was late in the evening. The boy sat on a wooden chair at the balcony of the old house. He loved the view of the trees from there. It was said that the house was one of the oldest in the small town. It stood on the highest point and up there, one can see and appreciate the beauty. His great grandparents had chosen that spot. They were one of the first settlers. This was where he had also chosen to live out his last days. He was only twelve but the doctors said he was dying. His heart was getting weaker. He preferred to do what he loved the most while waiting. The house gave him all the peace he needed, had always since his first visit when he was eight.
Today, the rain came. The dark clouds had appeared and disappeared continuously for three day before finally letting go. He had always found the rain therapeutic. He had tried to capture the anger with which it always fell in his drawing many times. But each time, all he managed was the serenity that followed after. Today, rather than drawing, he decided to watch and listen.
The door behind him opened. He knew who it was. He smelled her before she reached him. He closed his eyes and leaned into her hand when she squeezed his shoulders. His dear mother. When he had first said that he wanted to live out his remaining days in the old house, she didn't understand why. She had come with him still. The first few days, she wouldn't stop checking to make sure he was okay whenever he was out at the balcony. Now, it had become more like a sanctuary for both of them.
“Can I see what you made?” she sat besides him.
“I didn't draw today.”
She nodded and swallowed. The days he didn't draw were bad days.
“I noticed something today. The rain isn't as angry as I always thought.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I don't know,” he shrugged. “I don't like watching the clouds and the lightening. They seem angry and make me sad. But it's always beautiful after it rained. It's the most beautiful thing mum.”
She nodded again and ruffled his hair, as they continued to sit and watch the rain in silence.
--
She was awakened by the shrill of the ringing telephone. She ran half asleep to where it hung on the wall. All she wanted was to get rid of the piercing sound, but somehow, she managed to lift it to her ears.
Her sister's breezy voice on the other side was incoherent but she managed to pick out a few words.
“Hospital...the doctor...my nephew...a donor.”
Her legs gave way as she slowly dropped to the floor. The rest of the words coming from the telephone were lost. A new heart. A donor. Her son was going to live. She sniffed and wiped at the tears she didn't realise were streaming down her cheeks, then bursted into laughter. She stopped suddenly and pinched herself. Yes, she wasn't dreaming.
--
The look on his face was everything to her. This was the calmest she had ever seen him. What did she do to deserve such a sweet child? He kept squeezing her hands through it all. The hospital appointments and surgery schedule happened so quickly. At some point she believed she was floating. It wasn't until he was being wheeled in that it finally hit her. She walked up to him on shaky legs when he beckoned.
“Buy the gifts mum. We'll visit the kids when I'm out of surgery,” he whispered and never broke eye contact till he disappeared down the hall.
