Sitting in my unconscious mother’s hospital room is the last place I expected to spend my Saturday night. As it is, Declan needs a recharge, and I was somewhat bored watching Derry do computer genius things in his room. Spending time with him was hot, but it wasn’t much fun having his attention directed at something other than me, even if the attention was on expedited documents allowing him to spend more time with me. I was impressed by his ability to maintain focus despite my persistent efforts to distract him. He may or may not have encouraged me to join Declan. Heavy on the may. I’m unapologetic.

Ryan’s tending to Declan. I’m waiting while they do their refuel thing. I opted out of witnessing the feeding firsthand. There are certain things about my potential future I prefer to wait for. Forever. I want to wait forever to mess around with blood. So gross. Fingers crossed, refueling won’t be something I need to learn how to do. For Solathairs to exist, they require energy replenishment. That energy comes from human blood. Specifically, it comes from the human essence in the blood, not the blood itself. Ryan’s discovered a way to draw what they need from donations without impacting future use. Handy he works at a hospital, I suppose. This guarantees a continued food source where no humans are harmed during consumption. Safe feeding for the win. Still gross.

I kick at the linoleum for ten straight minutes, squeaking up the silence in a poor musical tribute. Sneakers is a misnomer. Being in the room with her body and wondering whether or not her consciousness is hanging out in the backdrop is awkward. Bright side: I’m alone…sort of. Either she hears me and will respond if she can, or I’ll be talking to myself in a hospital room, accompanied by the empty shell that used to house my mother.

I’m honestly not sure how to handle this situation. I haven’t been alone with Mom since I found out she’s the guiding light I assumed was my conscience. More bright sides, I wasn’t hearing imaginary voices in my head. Dim side for counterbalance: we don’t have two-way conversations. Sometimes Supermom, formerly known as Superego, offers suggestions I can listen to or actively ignore. Mostly, she provides salty commentary. Unhelpfully. She chirps. I chirp back. She chirps again later. The cycle repeats without there ever being an actual back and forth.

“How are things?” I blow out an exaggerated breath. “Didn’t want you thinking I was holding my breath waiting for you to respond.”

Rude, Supermom admonishes.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Okay, that wasn’t technically fair to say…or think. Whatever. Her comments aren’t entirely unhelpful. For example, breaking the tension is always helpful. There’s a lot of tension lately.

“Could you give me a hint what I should do?”

Beep, the life-support equipment answers for her. She received a tracheotomy long ago to support prolonged mechanical breathing with a ventilator.

“Yeah, you’re right.” I draw finger circles on my thighs. “This is probably something I should solve on my own.”

Whoosh.

Sighing, I rub my left eye. Stupid thing keeps twitching. “At least the monitors aren’t ignoring me.”

Beep.

I let out a frustrated groan. “You know, I appreciate that you were around and all, but it would’ve been nice if you’d given me any indication it was you.”

I lean back in the chair, dragging my hands through my hair. Why am I getting myself all bent out of shape? I should be happy and thankful she didn’t abandon me. Sitting in the room with her lifeless near-corpse annoys me. Being ignored is somehow shoddier than having been abandoned.

I’ve spent my whole life feeling responsible for what I did to her, seldom stepping back to consider what she did to me. What did she give me? Words. She gave me words. Better than nothing? Sure. I guess.

I let out an even more frustrated groan. I’m looking a gift horse in the mouth. Or feeding a stray horse. Something like that. There’s definitely a horse, and it’s no show pony. It’s a blame pony I’m trying awfully hard to break. Neither of us is to blame. It’s time to get over my past. I need to look ahead. The future is tired of waiting. It won’t sit around while I stew in my self-pity.

I march to the bed, squaring my shoulders as I come to a stop by the metal frame. “Dad’s decided to unplug you,” I say matter-of-factly. “To tell you the truth, I don’t blame him. He’s giving us a little more time with you.”

Beep.

“The thing is, how do I prove to him you really are in there somewhere? I can’t exactly tell him I hear you in my head. That’ll go over as well as a raging dumpster fire. To be frank, you aren’t helping my case.”

Whoosh.

“I’m fighting for you, Mom. If you can somehow hear me, I need you to listen. You need to fight, too. I know it’s rough. It’s undoubtedly dark, and you have no idea how you’ll ever find the light, but I promise you if you try...just try, Mom.”

Beep.

Sweat beads on my forehead from my temperature rising, where my emotions manifest in a way I’ve come to accept as natural. I grab her alien hand, accessorized with bojank tube and tape jewelry.

“I’ll keep the home fires burning, but I need you to help me. I’m exhausted. Right to my soul. Please wake up.”

Beep. Whoosh. Beep.

A stutter in the heart monitor, accompanied by an expulsive heat from my hand, steals my breath away. When I look up at my mother’s face, my heart beating divots in my chest, her eyelids flutter.