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Christmas isn't Coming -- ORIGINAL WORK

Okay, this depressing little piece was written for a short story comp but due to illness, I was unable to hand it in on the deadline. So, uhm. I'll just post it here.

It's a story of a little boy with a terminal illness...

 

The boy looked out the window, eyes half opened against the white harsh light of the hospital room. He was very sick, his parents struggling to pay his medical bills now that he was here. Not to mention he overhead the doctor talking to his mother, telling her that he wouldn't make it to christmas. He pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his thin arms around them. He would never grow up or fall in love, never have children.

Christmas isn't coming.

 

The nurse was in, her smiles were lost on him. She was changing the IV drip, a sad look on her face as she left. Did she know too? His little sister had her birthday yesterday, the brght bubbly toddler sitting in front of him on the plain hospital bed. She told him that mummy and daddy weren't able to buy her presents or spend much time with her but she was still happy, too happy. He gave her a weak smile as their grandmother whisked the little girl away. He wondered about how her christmas would be when he was gone.

Christmas never will come.

 

The illness was starting to set in now, the boy tired all the time. Deep, dark bags under his eyes marring his pale skin. His cheeks were sallow, hands shaking as he reached out for something. The harsh coughing that once took him a while to recover from was now making him feel too weak, forced to rest against the pillows. He looked just as his mother felt, the ragged woman sitting beside him with a worn book of his favourite stories. He looked at her mother, eyes wide.

“Mummy, will christmas ever come?”

She faultered as her dying child looked up at her, fighting tears away. She could see him slipping away right in front of her, heart monitor slowing as his eyes drooped. She sniffled, leaning over to flatten her hand against his forehead and kiss him on the cheek gently. She took his hand, holding it between her own and sobbing quietly.

“Baby... My little boy. For you, christmas isn't coming...”

The little boy had his eyes closed completely, breathing faultering for a moment before the heart monitor flatlined. The mother cried softly over the body of her child because she had broken his little heart before he died.

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