You try to sit up, to show the ones around you that you are not helpless, but a pain shoots through your back and stops you. A groan escapes your throat as you slowly push yourself forward. Even though it feels as if your back will break in two at any second, you keep going.
Finally in a sitting position, you gasp for air and shut your eyes for a few seconds. The pain resides, slowly but surely, and now you feel able enough to look at her in the eye.
Her eyes are red and puffy, and the wrinkles that used to be barely noticable now scream for a rest. She has aged, and in such a little amount of time. But the hand that she places on your shoulder, pushing you back down, is still as warm as how you used remember.
Your bed sheets are no longer on you but resting by your side. You were trying to sit by the side of your bed until your mother made you lay down again. There is still strength in you, but not enough to move your body to your will. That won't stop you.
Grabbing the sketchpad that was resting on the table by your bed, you look around for a pencil. The feel of the paper between your fingers is like a thin leaf that has fallen from its tree. So fragile.
You missed that.
The sketchpad has a tiny bow drawn at the side, no doubt by your mother, indicating it as a present. A present you think you don't deserve. But somehow the darkness that surrounded your heart has lifted, just a little bit, and lets you accept what you think shouldn't be.
How much longer will you stay like this?