Is This Reality or Fantasy?

Here we go again....
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"Time of death: 3:27." The doctor's voice was firm, he'd done this more times than he could count. But there was one part of the ritual that took place when someone left the world that he always had trouble with; the family. The members pacing inside the waiting room would be no exception. Large "gatherings" of members were always the worst. As a doctor there is an insatiable thirst to help others, and when you fail it crushes your spirit. Even worse when the patient has four children.

He walked toward the door against his will, the only thing carrying him being his responsibility, carefully placing his gloves in the trash bin and continued toward the bath of emotions he was sure would come....



I woke with a silent scream. I couldn't find my voice. You know that feeling of alertness when you have a nightmare? Like the event is actually happening? Yeah, that's how I felt now. 3:27... I checked my clock. Only one in the morning. I rushed out of my bed and down the hall into my parents' bedroom. My feet kept tripping over each other almost as if the carpet was willing me forward. I couldn't see where i was walking. The darkness from the absence of light and the chocolate carpet made my feet as covert to me as a secret military mission. There seemed to be an air of urgency emitted from the walls.

"We have to get him to the hospital!" My voice rang through the room. My parents were both fast asleep. "He's going to die!!" I was too caught up in my anger to cry. Why weren't they doing anything? Their eyes opened with a start.

"What are you yelling about?!" My mother sat up in her bed and glared at me. The last thing she needed was me screaming nonsense at one in the morning when she needed to be up in five hours preparing for work.

"We need to take Dad to the hospital!" My voice was taking on an unusual assertive tone and I returned my mother's gaze.

"Hey Alvin, I'm right here. I'm fine, you must have had a bad dream. Go back to bed." My dad gave me a reassuring look through squinted eyes, and against everything I believed would happen, returned to my bed. But I did not sleep, no, I was too anxious to sleep. I just laid my head against my pillow, waiting. As the clock struck two I began to wonder, maybe it was all a dream. My eyes began to shut slowly as the time reached quarter after when raspy coughing filled my ears. Fear struck my heart and paralysed me in the warm comfort of my blanket covered bed. The bed transformed into a prison as I fought to release myself from the tangle of blankets. I could almost hear the clock ticking as time droned by. I could feel myself becoming queasy like when I'm in a closed in space, when I unleashed myself from the last blanket and tumbled to the floor where my soft navy blue carpet caught me. The screaming now began as my mother's own screams began awakening my siblings, who in a dazed stupor voiced their anger and complaints as well as questions as to why they were being woke up. By now all the lights in the house were probably on. My mother's commanding voice demanded silence, and my brothers and sisters reluctantly obliged.

There were four children in our house total, but there wasn't much of a family resemblance. There was my oldest brother, Ty, who was 17. Almost out of the house and yet he acted so much like our younger siblings he could have been mistaken for my age. His black hair was in a tangled mess and he must have managed to cover himself with his dirty clothes from the day before because he looked identical now to as he looked eight hours ago. He was a follower of the "goth" style; dark hair, dark clothes, dark music, and a pathetic need for attention. He even went as far as dying his hair, and he looked like a complete interloper in the family pictures. He's taller than all of us, but tends to slouch so him and our father look to be the same height. He's the one I'd expect to be calm and collected right now; his "I don't give a **** attitude" on life should be his greatest asset.

Then there is me, Alvin Connor Morris. I'm only 14, but I'm way more advanced than my age. I often find myself secluded in a corner pouring my emotions mixed with creative ideas onto my iPod. Since I couldn't connect with anyone my time was spent slaving over a plastic-encased device writing dark stories that only my eyes would ever read. My appearance did not help my popularity. I don't dress in the latest fashions; those can't be afforded by our family of six. Instead i tend to wear T-shirts and jeans from the generic brands you'd find in Walmart where the welfare citizens shopped. What I lack in the style department my physical appearance makes worse. I'm short for my age, but growing. I'm slightly overweight and tend to wear shirts that are bigger than I need to try to mold my body into a smooth type of blob to hide the imperfections. The shirts do well to hide my small, but definite, man boobs, as well as my noticeable fat. My family tells me I'm just self-concious, but I see me for me. My face is covered in freckles, which is funny because nobody else in our immediate family wears them. We believe I contracted them from my great grandfather. My eyes aren't special, just a dull brown. I keep my strawberry blonde hair short, so there isn't anything to stick some gel in to increase my appeal.

My younger brother, Ryan, is just seven. He's got more energy than the rest of us combined. The doctors say he's ADHD and provided him with medication but I'm not sure. Being the bookworm "brainiac" that I am, I researched and believe it's just a child being a child. My parents still keep him on the pills, though. They hardly believe anything I say. Anyways, my brother is the average seven year old. His short brownish hair, which is a bit longer than mine, complements his hazel eyes. Everyone complements him on his eyes; he lit up any room he walked into! He was a fit seven year old, well, as fit as a seven year old could be, and took part in soccer. He'd be the flirt when he was older, I could already tell.

My baby sister Lyn brings up the rear in our family at only two years old. She was still asleep in her bedroom, I assume, since she wasn't out here. She was born early with a birth defect that left her little control of her arms and feet. It breaks my heart. Once she was born I immediately bonded with her. Out of all of my family I spent the most time with my sister. We shared a myriad of laughs, hugs, and playdates. She's adorable with her blonde curls and chubby-faced smile.

My mother just finished requesting an ambulance when I returned to the living room with my baby sister snuggled in my arms. While everyone was in a panic I advanced slowly towards my father whose chest moved up and down in short, rapid bursts. By the look on his face I could tell that even this was a challenge for him. His face was broke out in a sweat and he laid there, deep brown eyes directed on some spot on the ceiling. His body shook. It's difficult to picture your burly father, a person you always looked up to and thought invincible, weak and isolated. For that time I sat with him giving him sips of water or just comforting him. Me and my father were very close. He always encouraged me to explore the world out of my comfort zone, and as much as other teenagers can say they hate their parents' meddling, i feel content when my father shows interest in me. We used to play catch and do other things outdoors but since I opened the box containing my iPod last christmas I tended to spend more time in my bedroom than anywhere else.

The ambulance finally arrived after what felt like an eternity, even though it had only been ten minutes, and carried my father off on a stretcher. Their sirens gave me a brief hope of salvation for my father. We all piled into our van and followed after the ambulance. We just reached the hospital and arrived in the waiting area in the emergency room at two fifty-five. My mother finally ran out of adrenaline when she returned from the nurses' station down the hall. She collapsed into the chair next to me. Ty paced back and forth in front of us with Ryan following, trying to act like his big brother. He smiled proudly, which was a complete contrast to my brother who couldn't hide the grim expression on his face. The kid was lucky not to know what was happening around him.

I was still in some sort of shock. This whole string of events was actually happening. It was like a vision! I knew this was going to happen! It was a bittersweet victory over my parents. Against my good sense to stay quiet I turned to my mom to tell her "I told you so!" But when I turned my head I caught a glimpse of someone peering at me through a window. The dim lighting outside gave him a mysterious shadow. He held an onyx black helmet under his arm wearing a matching set of black armor. I did a double take, but the second time I looked towards the window the man was gone.

"What are you looking at?" My mom asked turning her head to look too. Of course, nothing was there. Just then a doctor walked into the room.

When we turned our heads he began to speak, taking a big breath of air in before starting. "Mrs. Morris, your husband..." He stalled. Something bad happened. People don't stall when they win. Michael Phelps didn't stall when he was competing for his eighth gold medal! My gut told me to expect disaster, and I braced myself. "Mrs. Morris, your husband is dead."

And then I woke up.


I looked at the time: one in the morning... I was overcome with a feeling of Deja Vú. I had an urge to be with my father, so I went into my parents' bedroom. But instead of waking them up I just sat on the floor and rested against their mahogany floorboard. If this was real then he deserved his sleep. They wouldn't listen to me now. My eyes watered. I was caught between reality and a fantasy , and I had no clue what to believe. As the numbers on the digital clock changed I felt anticipation. It's like Romeo and Juliet; you already know how it ends because Shakespeare tells you in the first fourteen lines. But you can't help but read it, can't help but be drawn into what will happen. And what makes it so much worse is that you want to change it with all your heart, but there is always the same conclusion.

My parents' breaths were rhythmically intertwined. First my mom, then dad. But as minutes passed and the number where the hour is shown on the digital clock rested on the top of the nightstand in the corner changed to two, my father's amount of inhales and exhales rapidly surpassed my mom. The difference was hardly noticeable, but to someone who knew exactly what to look for it was so obvious. My hands covered my ears and I curled up into a ball.
Not again.

The coughing began, and my mother was awoke. Within no time at all we were all in the same position again.

"Mrs. Morris, your husband is dead."

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So this is a solo story I decided to start. No clue if I'll continue, or if it's even good. Lol. Just felt like writing and I had some weird inspiration.

 

:3