Just Be Patient

(Trigger Warning: This short story revolves around death of someone of a young age. While this may be fine for some, if you are sensitive about this topic or would prefer something lighter, tread with caution, or maybe pick something else to read. Reader beware.)

“Inny, it’s okay. You can let go.” No. I want to scream but, god, I’m tired. So tired. And my head hurts. A lot. I want to hold her hand but my arm won’t move. There are nozzles up my nose and bands around my wrists and when I breathe I hear it come back, like Darth Vader. My voice hurts. I want to talk to her. I want to talk to my Mom and Dad. The hospital bed is uncomfortable. It feels like I’m lying on a sack of rocks, but I don’t feel like I have a right to complain.

“Inertia is the tendency for things that are staying to stay,” I think my Dad’s crying. I’ve never seen him cry. I would cry too, but my eyes are dry and puffy. “You’re staying in here.” He motions to his heart. I want to hug him, but I can’t move. My arms feel like they’re glued to the bed. I want to be better. But I think…I also need to go soon.

“What’s wrong with Inertia?” I see Arlo in the corner of my near-shut eye. His eyes are innocent, round and kind. He doesn’t know what’s going on. I’d prefer him not to.

“Nothing, Arlo baby,” my Mother whispers, close to tears, “nothing. She’s just about to have a nap. A long nap.” My Mother takes him in her lap and squeezes him, to hide her teary face from me. I don’t remember anything prior to this moment - how could I die? I’m only 11. It’s like I’m on a cliff, and everything is pulling me forwards. I need to go back. To Mom and Dad, Arlo and Parrot. Where’s Parrot? I’d like her here. To lick my face all better. Mom’s saying something, I don’t know what. Thoughts come flooding into my brain. “Inertia,” she whispers, “you can go.”

I don’t want to go. I want to be here with you. But I’m so tired, Mom, you understand. You understand, too, Dad, maybe even you as well, Arlo. I’m tired. I think the car hit my head and that’s why it hurts so much, or maybe it hurts from all the thoughts stirring up there. I think I’m ready, maybe soon. Maybe soon I’ll go. Tell Granny I love her. I think she knows, though. I think all of you know, even you, Arlo. I’m kidding. I love you Arlo. I’m going soon. It’s going to be messy. Maybe it’ll be like on TV, but I hope I’m different from anyone on TV. You guys always said so. I love you all. It’s time to go now. I think my curtain’s falling, as they say in the theatre. I really hope you’ll miss me. You can’t hear me. Maybe you can, somewhere, or will be able, one day when I’m not around, but right now you can’t hear how much I love you. How much I wish I could stay. The doctors can’t make me better, I know that. It makes me sad. I hope I made you guys smile. That’s really all I ever wanted to do, to make you all happy. I’m such a baby. You guys always said I was sensitive, but look at you all crying. Don’t make such a big deal out of it. Miss me, sure, but I’ll be back in some sort of way. I’ll be back soon. Just be patient. Just be patient. Just be…

The beep is long and high pitched. And just like that? Inertia is gone. Well, not gone. That’s what Mommy cries out when she hears the beep. She’s gone. My baby. I don’t fully understand it. I can see her right there. Her eyes are open. Maybe she’s falling asleep. Mommy squeezes me tighter and cries into my shoulder. Daddy picks me up and holds me like I’m a little baby. He tries to act like he’s not crying, but he is. I am too, but I don’t know what for, because Inertia’s just sleeping. A long nap, like Mommy said. I wipe the tears off my face because now I’m going to be the second oldest in the house and I’ve got to be strong for Mommy and Daddy. I turn my head round to look at Inertia. I can remember what happened now, looking at her - the car, the mean man who didn’t care.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” the kind nurse lady next to Inertia speaks in a soft voice, “she’s in a better place now.” How? She’s right there. How did the place change? Maybe Inertia’s dreaming, and that’s a better place than real life. I can agree with that. Mommy nods, but she’s still crying. Daddy rocks me slowly, and I want to tell him that I’m not a toddler anymore, I’m 6, but the rocking is making me sleepy. But if I fall asleep, if I take a nap, Mommy will cry more. Mommy will have two children napping and that must be sad. I’m not sure how it’s sad, but it’s making her very upset so I make it my mission to keep my eyes open. We start to leave the hospital room. As we do, I take a glance at Inertia one last time. She’s still lying there, with the nozzles up her nose and the bands around her wrists and the bruises on her head and the big, open scar on her neck. Her eyes are still open. I wonder if Inertia will ever come back. She has to. She needs to. I don’t understand it now, but soon, she’ll come back, in one way or another. Goodbye, Inertia, I tell her silently, come back soon.

Goodbye, Arlo. I will. Just be patient.