literature

Their Last Conversation

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Literature Text

Death struggled a bit with Randall's mother. The woman's stubbornness knew no ends, and she fought it off for years. The day it finally caught her, Randall ended his meeting early.

"My apologies, ladies and gentlemen, I must excuse myself. I just got word that my mother is close to death. Thank you for your time, feel free to stay and enjoy the refreshments for as long as you'd like."

The sympathy in their eyes hit him like a splash of lukewarm water: that is, he felt nothing. The nearest man to him, a portly gentlemen and a wealthy restaurateur, patted him on the back. Randall offered what he hoped was a convincing look of pained appreciation and headed out the door.

Why bother going? The question haunted him as his shoes tapped softly down the stairs, muted by the multi-colored carpet that covered the company's conference hallway.

Could he remember anything of her past the picture in his head? Sixteen years old, depressed, lonely. Not a good fit in school, although a top performer academically. He saw himself again, standing there in the ill-fitting pants and the scuffed shoes that pinched his toes awkwardly.

"Get out of my house!"

"But Ma! I just need a little help! There's nothing wrong with that!" She got close to him then, he could still feel the droplets of spit on his face and how he cowered under her as if he weren't five inches taller than the spoon-wielding assailant.

"No one in this family needs any kinda psycho-anything, you hear me? We talked about this before. You need to grow up and be a man, and start trying to do something worthwhile. I've seen the kids you call your friends, Randy. Worthless, every last one of them. You aren't 'depressed.' You're just a runt, always have been. I can't protect you anymore, it's time to kick you out of the litter. You'll either man up or die; done coddled you too long, boy."

The shock on his face hadn't been enough to stop her. He wasn't sure if she was serious, but he hadn't stayed to find out. He left that day with the uncomfortable clothes and a scrap of cash in his pocket.

He took himself from vagrant to entrepreneur to popular, successful businessman without her help--in spite of her, he liked to think.

That he had kept in touch with his sister was out of necessity; that being, she wouldn't leave him alone. She had sent the message about his mother. She expected him to be there.

Why bother going? It stayed with him as he walked into the hospital, asked for directions, and got lost. It followed him into her room.

"Hi, Ma," he said, his mind running dry suddenly, cracking in places like the dirt in a dried-up riverbed.

"Randall," she rasped, her mind sharp as ever, even if her body didn't agree. "I heard about you, you're all big now. Must think you're a pretty swell guy these days, huh?"

"I like to think so, Ma," he replied, shifting his weight nervously.

"Yeah, well, not swell enough. Takes me dying for you to come back and properly thank me."

"Thank you?" he said incredulously. "Thank you for what?"

"For forcing you to be a man, son. And you're welcome, you ungrateful snot."

The monitor flat lined, then; punctuating her sentence with a loud, droning beep. She died, and the shock on his face wasn't enough to stop her.
Attempt number two at flash fiction, trying to get away from anything romantic-related.
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QuiEstInLiteris's avatar
I love the subtle repetition in this piece. I admit that the ending was expected, but it somehow managed to hit me, nevertheless.