Deathless

Chapter 5: Millie

There are exactly one-hundred and twenty-two ducks scattered across the sun-striped wallpaper of my godmother Rosin's spare room. And how do I know this? It's because I've counted them, every last one of them. Technically, it's one-hundred and sixty-eight if you include the ones hidden by the wardrobe and curtains.

It's nearly ten o'clock. I've been awake for nearly two hours, counting ducks and watching the morning sunlight slowly slink into the room. I have no idea what to do...

What would a normal person do on a Saturday morning? What would a normal twenty-one-year-old do?

Usually, I'd be awake, showered and dressed. I would have already helped Mum take a bath, taking extra care to avoid the sharp bones jutting out from her marbled blue skin. Then I would have helped her dress into clothes that hung off her once solid and comforting frame, a body that had been perfect for hugs and snuggling.

Slowly, and with the greatest of care, I'd help her take her place in her favourite armchair in the front room. The one with the best view of the TV and the window (she liked to watch Mr Fletcher from number eleven gardening topless). After popping bread in the toaster, I'd put the washing going and put away yesterday's dry dishes from the sideboard.

After, we would eat toast, sip tea and catch up on crappy reality dating shows. We would let the rest of the morning linger on in a gentle rhythm of more tea and more TV. We'd argue about who was the better looking and whether a six-pack is really enough to make up for being a terrible human being (yes, in Mum's case, no in mine). We'd laugh. Laugh hard, until our stomachs ached, and we'd forgotten everything outside of the little universe we'd constructed together.

Mum would forget she was in pain; a pain so twisted and knotted deep within her it had become as much a part of her body as I once was. I would forget about what my (let's be honest—former) friends were out in the world doing. I would ignore the itch and twitch of my fingers as my phone beeped with shiny Friday night posts, who's-with-who-now messages and hangover selfies.

That's what I would have been doing.

Mum died in the early hours of a Thursday morning, three weeks ago. Me and Roisin were by her side in the sickly sweet smelling cancer ward. I've spent more time in that hospital in the last six years than I did at school. From the moment the doctor uttered the word 'terminal', Mum had a black hole sucking and stripping her life bare. As it stripped hers, it sank its claws into mine. But 'terminal' was always something in the future. In a distance that seemed just far enough away to be in our thoughts, but not near enough to be a recognisable reality. I knew Mum would die, but somewhere in my heart, I didn't really believe it. I still don't.

The last few weeks have passed in a blur of paperwork and funeral arrangements. I didn't know so much had to be signed, meetings attended and hands shook when someone died. Considering how many people die daily, I wonder how we can all keep going. It shocks me that all offices and shops aren't empty because people are too busy dealing with the business of death. Mum had left clear, written instructions for the funeral and I wanted... I needed... to keep as close to what she desired as possible.

Everyone had to wear purple. Black was unacceptable. As people walked in tearfully, I stood at the side, handing out lilac scarves and lavender cardigans to ensure that even the most stubborn traditionalists were properly attired. Auntie Glenda snarled when I placed a violet throw around her black-clad shoulders. I snarled right back.

Rule two; only songs by Robbie Williams were permitted, except for "Angels", which was banned for being 'too obvious'. Her exact words were that she wanted her beloved Robbie 'to fill every orifice in the room'. When we read this part out to the Reverend, he went a shade of puce himself and choked on his Rich Tea.