Sleepless Nights (A Micro Story)

She jolted out of her sleep, almost falling off the couch. It had been two weeks since she’d slept in her own bed. Peaceful rest was foreign to her now. She was afraid of what would be waiting every time she woke up.

She rubbed her eyes, trying to shake off sleep. Each day she said she’d leave tomorrow, but every tomorrow found her still at her mother's place. The thought of her mother alone in that apartment was unsettling. Her mother would never ask for help—too afraid of being a burden, words that weighed on her heart.

She sat up and listened. A muffled cry tiptoed down the hallway. She sighed heavily and stood up, following the sound to her mother’s bedroom. She walked lightly so as not to disturb the downstairs neighbors. Her mother hated people in her business.

The hallway was narrow, connecting the living room to the kitchen with her mother’s room at the end. She stopped at the doorway, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. She could make out a lump in the middle of the mattress, slowly rocking back and forth. Her mother rarely slept. They were too much alike.

She walked to the edge of the bed and placed a hand on the small of her back.

“Oh, honey, I didn’t mean to wake you.” She whimpered.

“It’s okay, Mom. What hurts?”

“Nothing, sweetheart. Go back to….” Her words were cut off by a cry of agony ripping through her. Her face clenched tight like a fist; pain replaced her attempt at reassurance.

“Did you take something, Mom?”

“Ah, yeah, earlier.”

“Let me get the pills.”

Tears flooded her mother’s eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Her typically upturned lips were flipped permanently upside down. The cancer had stolen her smile and was starting to take her will to live.

“I don’t want to take pills anymore.” Her mother cried.

"You can’t sit like this, Mommy." She dashed to the nightstand for painkillers. The bedside was cluttered with yellow bottles—Oxy, Percocet, ibuprofen, muscle relaxers, you name it. She could sell them, but her mother needed everyone.

“If you take the pills earlier, you won’t be in as much pain.”

“I know.” The tears were still running down her mom’s sunken cheeks. “I hate this.”

“I know,” Her voice softened, sympathy replacing frustration. She sat on the edge of the bed and held her mother’s hand. A weak attempt to comfort her.

Doctors said the tumor in her mother’s shoulder was the size of an orange. That’s all her mother could remember from the appointment. Her mother was by herself when they told her she had cancer, a rare cancer of the soft tissue. Sarcoma. Go fucking figure!

She thought back to that phone call where her mother delivered the awful news. Why would the doctors have her come in by herself?

“You want the Oxy or Percocet?” Already fumbling with the cap.

One pill for mom, one pill for me. Her mother was too sick to notice that the cancer was killing both of them.