Tears streamed from her eyes, a cascading rainbow flowing from her eyes. Flowing along technicolour grooves left behind by earlier pioneers. The tears seemed never-ending, as fireworks rose, flickering inside her chest – a tumor, they had said.
It was probably leukaemia. Cancer. Riding roughshod, rampant and pillaging along his bone marrow. It was a long and painful death, she knew. Condemned to die, without the medication that sat behind the counter at the free clinic. There was no other choice. They could never afford the treatments.
She knew there was no other choice.
She kissed his forehead, running her fingers slowly along his high cheekbones, gently massaging his neck as he melted into her chest. He had no idea what was going on, of the terror that stood waiting, lurking in the shadows of his future, laid clear before her.
“Now, love, he can only stay here for three days,” she held sincerity in her voice, though condemnation seemed to flash behind her eyes as she whispered. Her wrinkled brow crumpled deeper at the knowledge she had to bear every day. Reverential, she knew she was the Agent of Death more often than the Angel of Redemption. She knew that she needed to be impartial, to ignore the passions burning at her breast.
They both knew that there was no way anyone would volunteer to save him. That there was no way this mangy little black cat with famine in his eyes and fire gnawing at his bones.
They both knew. Knew that in three days his time would run out.
In three days all of their worlds would come to an end. The mother, the protector and the damned.
This is a true story, of sorts – my little black cat BC (never let a three year old name a pet, BC stands for Baby Cat) only lived for two years before contracting leukaemia, and there was no way we could afford the medicine she needed. We had to take her to the RSPCA to have her put down (they do it for free if no-one adopts the animal within three days.) She was the little black cat whom I based one of my first ever short stories on (although some call it a “prose poem” whatever that means (aren’t those two terms mutually exclusive? I’d've thought so…)) That story/poem is called Trust and there, at the beginning of my blog it sits, uncommented upon.
Anyway, enough reminiscing. This story was written for Trifecta‘s prompt The world will end in three days. Seeing as I write an awful lot of post- or pre-apocalyptic stories (The Missionary’s Position, His Illiterate Etchings, and Home Schooled amongst many others.) I also didn’t realise that I missed a Trifecta prompt this week fireworks: a display of temper or intense conflict.. I hope you liked it…oh, and check out some of the old ones!