Mika’d first met Jasmine at a hole-in-the-wall bar in Dubai. She’d flown there, one of her first few jobs as an air hostess, and after being too nervous to ask her co-workers to explore the nightlife with her, she had decided to go on her own. It had been terrifying to be all alone in a bar, in a city, in a country, with no one that she knew. But that setting, those circumstances, had allowed the most beautiful girl in the room to teach the flustered air hostess how to smoke. She could still feel hands on her chin, as the lady had whispered into her ear, lips barely grazing her neck-

Hold it in, like medicine, gorgeous, don’t feel scared to cough!

-and she’d never gotten the beautiful girl, Jasmine, out of her mind. Years passed, texts and calls and promises, all down the drain in the name of distance. It’s not you, it’s me, it’s the miles between us— and Mika truly cursed fate then! For giving her something so rare, so prized, then ripping it all away from her. But fate was not so easily spiindeed forted, crossing the paths of an air hostess and a chemo patient once again, and there they were. Jasmine crying, choking on her tears, and Mika begging for her to hold on to hope to-

Hold it in, like medicine, my sunshine. I’ll be here by your side.

It had taken one look at Jasmine, ghostly under the fluorescent lights, nearly hidden in her hospital gowns with tears dripping onto her hands, for Mika to voice the easiest decision she’d ever made.

There’s one more flight, and then I’m done. I quit. I’ll be here for you, Jasmine, right by your side.

In hindsight, the wording and the timing were awful. Mika reflected as she stared hard at the bloodstains on her hands as Dr. Martin patched up her nose, bless the poor guy’s soul. He had chuckled earlier, commenting on how lucky Jasmine was that she still had the energy to punch that hard. Mika had huffed once before her voice had wavered and snapped, and she’d started to cry. Dr. Martin had stayed and tried to explain that it wasn’t personal. Jasmine had been undergoing chemo on and off for months at a time; it had been a taxing couple of years. Mika nodded through the sniffles, and as she walked out the door, Dr. Martin smiled and told her to keep her head up.

On the ride home, Mika wondered how the same man that had labeled Jasmine with her expiration date could be the same one telling Mika to stay strong. What a load of bullshit.

But now, looking back, Mika understands what Dr. Martin must have meant. Mika turns to the window to stare at the dark waves beneath her. She’s seen it a thousand times at this point, and yet the sheer novelty of looking down and seeing an expanse of sheer darkness never failed to make her shiver. It’s her last flight, and that’s scary. But it’s the start of something new. Six more hours, and she’ll be—

There’s a lull in the engine rumble, and suddenly there’s nothing at all.

One moment Mika is daydreaming of Jasmine’s smile, and the next, the plane is underwater. A piercing wail cuts through the others screaming, the cry of a child, and that seems to be the final straw to bring Mika back to the world of the living. There is pain, God, there’s so much pain, and it has to be the seatbelt ripping into her abdomen, but Mika can’t help but wonder if this is what heartbreak feels like. Getting so close to the light, only to have it ripped away again? In all the years she’d traveled, and it’d never happened before, how could this—

A window cracks. And then another. And then some more, and the water is rising, and as Mika struggles to unbuckle fast enough, she thinks of Jasmine, holding on so desperately and—

— breathes in a giant gulp of air and thinks one last time—

Hold it in, like medicine—!

Now that I think about it, I feel like the room haunted him. A little room in the corner of the ground floor, collecting dust. The blinds were never opened; the room slowly grew darker and darker; it grew cluttered with boxes and letters and anything else meant to be hidden. In some way, the room was neglected.

And yet.

And yet, I could still smell her, the antiseptic, the tobacco, the Boroline; you could hear her, the sound of her needles snapping away, her laugh lighting up the room; I could feel her, even though I knew she wasn’t there anymore.

She hadn’t been in that tiny little room in years. Dad kept it furnished, hoping that one day she’d be back. Her current room was nice, but not the same. It was sunny in California, but it wasn’t that tiny little room that was so packed with memories that they had probably seeped into the walls and wedged themselves beneath the floorboards.

The sunny room has its own nostalgia, just not as fond.

We used to knit. I remember coming back from an art class and showing her what I had learned. The confusion on her face slowly morphed into a smile and laughter spilled from her lips. Even as a child, I didn’t feel ridiculed. I felt loved. In the end, she taught me how to do it her way, and we wasted an afternoon together in that tiny little room. She sat on her chair, I sat on the bed, and she held my hands and maneuvered them in a way she saw fit.

Her hands were wrinkled, sprinkled with creases, and soft. I wondered if I would ever have hands like that, pudgy like cherubs. Now I wonder if I should have cherished holding her hands more often.

Finals were excruciating. The car ride home was nerve-wracking. The flight was mind-numbing. The tiny room had been hidden away behind a closed door and before I could think to open it I was in the sunny room. It was late. The sunny room was ironically dark. It was fitting though as all good things eventually came to an end, the light gave way to the dark, the day gave way to the night. And likewise, the living gave way to the dead.

Her hands were so small. Were they always so small? When she had held your hands last, they had engulfed yours and yet here they were, so delicate and weak. Her eyes wandered to my face and flitted away and my eyes burned. She asks my mom when I got here and that’s about all I can take.

She barely responds anymore. Earlier this week she couldn’t recognize her own sons.

She waited for you.

The room haunts my dad, and those words haunt me.

I sat with my father that night. I think about what it must feel like to lose a mother and decide that I should at least attempt to provide some comfort. I end up soaking his shirt in my tears. It’s the first time in years either of us had truly had a conversation that didn’t involve spite. The thought left a bitter aftertaste in my mouth and I woke up the next day with salt crusted in my eyelashes.

Her nurse has kind eyes and you talk some the next morning. I wish I could have met her on better terms. She’s like an angel of death, only present before the inevitable. When the small talk putters off, she tells me it’ll all work out; I don’t think I’ve ever been lied to my face like that by a stranger before.

I cook dinner and the mouse freezes and there’s a lot of screaming. I lock myself away in the closet and wish the tension would just dissipate, wish that this wasn’t happening right now, wish that this wouldn’t happen ever. I cry like the child I wish I was instead of this half-ass adult that doesn’t know what to do.

Dinner goes just fine but the pictures come out dark and I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to be thankful for anymore.

The night encroaches and the mood goes sour. One by one the kids go to bed and at one point my dad sends me off too. The room’s too cold, my mind’s too full, and I can’t sleep.

By the time my mother coaxes me awake, all I can do is mumble that I know. It’s beautiful outside, not a sign of rain, and yet all our faces are too wet for the sunny room.

She shrunk, as though her soul took a physical part of her body before departing. Her hands were oh so soft, and this time they were still. Outside, my uncle's smile doesn’t reach his eyes and my dad’s already on the phone with the cremation services and I wish I could scream because why won’t anybody recognize that this isn’t fair, it wasn’t fair, it never will be fair.

She never fucking deserves the years and years of pain she was put through and the universe is fucked and I-

The kids start to cry as the severity of the situation dawns on them. The nurse tells me it’ll be okay again and again and again and again. I wish I could purge the white body bag from my mind but it’s ingrained in the deepest part of my brain.

That night we sang, we played, we enjoyed. It felt like a betrayal even though everybody said it was a blessing in her name. Everyone kept saying,

She waited for you.

She’ll give you a sign.

She knew you loved her.

I stayed in the sunny room for a long time that night. I never could tell if she was there with me or not, but I’d like to believe she was wherever would make her happy.

The flight back was mind-numbing. The car ride was nerve-wracking. And as I sat in my room, alone that night, the memories were excruciating.

I should have called more.

I should have done more.

I should have, I could have, I didn’t, I can’t.

I really did love you, Ma.

The door slams shut for the third time this week; you can still hear her sobbing and screaming, you can imagine the tears and snot plastered on her face. Her voice was raspy, her words grating.

You don't understand and you never will.

The wife gives you a disappointing glare, eyes masking the lecture you'd be getting later. You know you deserve it, but right now the anger is brittle and furious- a storm of fear, misunderstanding, and confusion mixing into unfortunate fury. You glare back as she runs up the stairs to the daughter's aid. You sigh and collapse on the leather couch and remember.

When you were a boy things were simple. Or as simple as it could be, anyway. The heat was smoldering, the streets were loud. The atmosphere smelled of petroleum and food; sounded like loving mothers and taxi cabs. You could hear the clatter of dishes and your mother calling for you to come eat dinner. It felt like home. Or as much as it could feel like it.

You try to ignore your mother's tears or the way that your brother doesn't chitter like he always does. You try to ignore the closed study door, the chair with nobody in it. You try not to miss a hand in your hair; a voice asking about your school day; the smell of cologne and sweat as he came home from another hard day at work. You try to think about how life could go downhill so fast while all you did was write essays and solve problems. You miss your dad but grieving won't solve anything will it?

You smile. Shovel food into your mouth, and smile. It feels fake even as you do it, and yet you continue to do it over and over again, one pitiful grin after the other.

It's great, mom.

Thanks, mom.

It's perfect, mom.

It was simpler back then. When the hardest conquest was school and the worst case of bullying was getting shoved into a wall and beat up in a dark alley. The worst nightmare was losing your dad at the age of eighteen. You can't even start to comprehend the problems in today's world.

She called me a bitch in a group chat. Everybody saw it and that hurts.

Just because I'm a girl doesn't mean, I can't do this.

I like girls! So what? Why can't you just love me for me?

Why can't she make her life easier? Why can't she just fit in and keep it simple? Why does she want to be so different?

You love her, you really do, but you don't understand. You never will.

The world is white.

The winter frost is cold and biting and our faces are stained red as though we’re drunk. She’s not, I assume, as she’s been nursing her drink for the past half hour while her eyes water. The wind is bitter, and yet we trudge along.

She talks and I listen. Something about organic chemistry and Hess’s Law, and I remember it from way back when. When the worksheets piled up, and my grades were impeccable, and I was merely fifteen. Ah the wondrous age of fifteen.

College life was dull, but nothing compared to home. My father was a teacher while my mother was lead in financial services. Mother worked from home and was always on the phone. Cooked, cleaned, hoped for release and never got it. My father worked hours away. He left at sunrise and arrived home at sunset, his forehead creased, his wire glass frames slipping off the peak of his nose. Usually exhausted, he was never up to conversation. Not when I won some award or the other, not when I graduated highschool at 16. Not when I fell in love, and moved three thousand miles away. Not when my mother passed away. It’s alright. He was tired and exhausted. The funeral was a quiet ordeal with seven people. I packed for three days after while my father drank himself into oblivion. I moved on that Saturday.

”...and that’s why Hess’s law is the epitome of Chemistry and all its ideologies! I mean could you believe it when Professor Summers even attempted to contradict that statement? I swear sometimes the T.A. is better, and that poor thing looks like a deer caught in headlights ninety percent of the time, dontcha think?”

Dr. Summers is an idiot. I voice the certain opinion, and Carol laughs. Her teeth shimmers the color of the snow glistening around us, her nose the color of her bright wool scarf. We knitted them together last winter, when Carol turned twenty one. She was invited elsewhere, a pub, to grab drink with her graduate friends. I couldn’t go, so neither did she. We drank cider and knit till our teeth rotted and we ran out of yarn. I think that’s when it all started. Damn scarves.

I can see it. The building looms over the garden; an ugly spot in the midst of a winter wonderland. All good things come to an end I suppose. Carol hasn’t stopped chippering but then that wasn’t anything new. She looked up, her long eyelashes coated in snow fluff, and lifted her heels on to her tiptoes. I looked down, brought my hands up to cup her jaw, and leaned down. She whispered into my lips, and the world slowed down. The ice and snow thawed, and somewhere below us the devil was smiling. Laughing. Rolling on the floor with tears in his eyes. It was just you and me up against the world. And we were happy, oh so happy.

I love you.

So why?

Why as the memory fades, and the ghost of your lips leave mine, am I alone again? As you rest there, with you eyes closed and not a care in the word. As the room closes in, and the nurses come and go again. Why?

I love you, forever and always.

It’s white again. Oh, so white.

@demcmurphy

The world is white.

The winter frost is cold and biting and our faces are stained red as though we’re drunk. She’s not, I assume, as she’s been nursing her drink for the past half hour while her eyes water. The wind is bitter, and yet we trudge along.

She talks and I listen. Something about organic chemistry and Hess’s Law, and I remember it from way back when. When the worksheets piled up, and my grades were impeccable, and I was merely fifteen. Ah, the wondrous age of fifteen.

College life was dull, but nothing compared to home. My father was a teacher while my mother was lead in financial services. Mother worked from home and was always on the phone. Cooked, cleaned, hoped for release and never got it. My father worked hours away. He left at sunrise and arrived home at sunset, his forehead creased, his wire glass frames slipping off the peak of his nose. Usually exhausted, he was never up to having a conversation. Not when I won some award or the other, not when I graduated high school at 16. Not when I fell in love and moved three thousand miles away. Not when my mother passed away. It’s alright. He was tired and exhausted. The funeral was a quiet ordeal with seven people. I packed for three days after while my father drank himself into oblivion. I moved on that Saturday.

”...and that’s why Hess’s law is the epitome of Chemistry and all its ideologies! I mean could you believe it when Professor Summers even attempted to contradict that statement? I swear sometimes the T.A. is better, and that poor thing looks like a deer caught in headlights ninety percent of the time, dontcha think?”

Dr. Summers is an idiot. I voice the certain opinion, and Carol laughs. Her teeth shimmer the color of the snow glistening around us, her nose the color of her bright wool scarf. We knitted them together last winter when Carol turned twenty-one. She was invited elsewhere, a pub, to grab a drink with her graduate friends. I couldn’t go, so neither did she. We drank cider and knit until our teeth rotted and we ran out of yarn. I think that’s when it all started. Damn scarves.

I can see it. The building looms over the garden; an ugly spot in the midst of a winter wonderland. All good things come to an end I suppose. Carol hasn’t stopped chippering but then that wasn’t anything new. She looked up, her long eyelashes coated in snow fluff, and lifted her heels so that she was on her tiptoes. I looked down, brought my hands up to cup her jaw, and leaned down.

She giggled into my lips, and the world slowed down. The ice and snow thawed, and somewhere below us, the devil was smiling. Laughing. Rolling on the floor with tears in its eyes. It was just you and me up against the world. And we were happy, oh so happy.

I love you.

So why?

Why as the memory fades, and the ghost of your lips leave mine, am I alone again? As you rest there, with your eyes closed and not a care in the world. As the room closes in, and the nurses come and go again. Why?

I love you, forever and always.

It's white again. Oh, so white.