Suffocating

Because mortality is always a harsh reality to face.

Suffocating.

Blowing gently on the tea in her mug, the young girl noticed how her breath disrupted the rising steam, clearing it away so she could peer in and see the tiny ripples her breath caused on the surface of her drink. Also noticed was how old the cup was, it's edges chipped and broken, its normal purple paint now faded to a pale pink, the worn letters H, O, M, and E, once printed boldly, now hidden by her curled fingers. A long crack in the handle, a permanent brown stain near the bottom �" all these she noted and more.

She wouldn't usually be so interested in an old cup, if not for her refusal to shift her gaze anywhere else.

It wasn't like the room wasn't interesting. Old 1960's movie posters hung on the walls, along with grainy, black-and-white photographs of smiling women, all with identical haircuts and crisp, starch white nurse uniforms; a vortex of history, where the modern notion of dyed blue hair met hair genuinely blue with age, above a wrinkled and kindly face.

A face that she couldn't bear to look at.

"Isadora?" The girl winced. No one called her that anymore. It was just such a lame name.

"It's Izzy, Grandmum."

"No, it's Isadora. Why have such a nice name and put it to good use?" Placidly shuffling over to an armchair almost vertical from where her grandchild sat, her grandmother took her time in settling herself in comfortably before staring at the table in front of her. A forlorn chessboard with half the pieces missing stared back at her.

"Do you know how to play chess, Isadora?"

"No, Grandmum."

"Would you like to learn?"

"Thank you, Grandmum, but I'm fine."

"Come come now, Isadora, are you su-"

"I said no thank you. Grandmum."

Silence. Izzy, unable to take the tension, made the mistake of lifting her head �" and was immediately caught by the aging looks of her grandmother. Wrinkles, wispy hair, cracked lips that she kept licking every five minutes. A twitchy right eyebrow, shaking hands, a cane by her sofa that she was forced to rely on every time she wanted to go anywhere.

Suffocating.

"I have lots of homework, Grandmum. I have to go."

More silence.

"Good night, then, Isadora."

Nodding stiffly, Izzy grabbed her backpack from where it leaned next to her armchair, stood up, and kissed her grandmother swiftly on the cheek before practically sprinting out of the creaking, old house.

When she opened the door, she was blasted by the bright sunlight, and as she remembered her grandmother's comment she found she couldn't stand it anymore. She started running, running as fast as she could so the air would be forced to escape her lungs if she wanted to keep running. Running, running, faster and faster, away from her grandmother, away from the decrepit house, away from her own eventual mortality.

It's morning, Grandmum.

Author's Note

This was me trying to understand why I'm so uncomfortable around my own grandfather. It was easier to talk to him after this.
That's why I love writing. It helps you understand yourself.
(c) Neko Green 2010

Reviews

[chaffy]

this was beautiful.. modern world can really change people and what they think about the elderly.. this story is really deep and sad to me.. actually really sad..