So this is a little sad for a Sunday evening, sorry about that.
Remember, remember the fifth of November. Gunpowder, treason and plot.
The fifth of November must never be forgot, they say. Well fuck that, because the fifth of November was an icy cold, nightmare of a day that ended in tears and snot and a goddamn headache that throbbed and pulsed.
She didn’t know why crying caused her head to feel as if it was full of lead but as she wiped at her puffy, sore eyes she could feel it beat a pattern behind her forehead.
The fireworks didn’t help. Bright flashes of light and colour booming in the sky on the other side of the blinds. Cheerful and sparkling and so goddamn fucking inappropriate.
A machine bleeped and blipped, footsteps were shuffling past every few minutes. Not a single second of peace to be had no matter how desperately she wished.
Her mother beside her was quiet, her hand clammy as she clung on and shook with silent tears. She hadn’t spoken in hours, too focused on the body on the hospital bed.
Her sister looked so small where she lay, pale and bruised, drowning in white sheets that enveloped her.
They said she might wake up soon.
They said she might never wake up.
They didn’t know a fucking thing and she couldn’t take much more waiting.
She wanted to scream, she so very much wanted to go find whichever dickheads were letting off fireworks and tell them to shut the fuck up. Her sister might die and they’re out there enjoying sparklers and flames and flashy lights in the sky.
It wasn’t fucking fair. That was all she could think. It wasn’t the slightest bit fair that she had to sit and wait as her sister breathed with the help of a machine and her mother sat weeping, too exhausted and heartbroken to even make a sound.
It wasn’t fucking fair at all.
Tales written from a prompt in just 10 minutes.
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