Blind Dating

Nora lives in poverty. Her mother is bound to the home because of M.S and her older brother has been thrown into jail for theft. Nora's life as practically a 12 year old home help also takes a turn for the worse when she finds out that she is starting to lose her sight. However, she is inspired by the portrait of a beautiful young man on a visit with her school to the art gallery. But, is her developing handicap about to ruin the one thing she treasures in life?
This is my entry for the "Love" competition. It's trying to show our attachment to material things in comparisment with real love. I hope you enjoy! I'll always be happy to read and like your's.


3. 9 months

I mounted the stairwell of the council flats laboriously, my worn out rip-curl bag (a faded pink and brown splodge number) bashing against my upper- thigh in a continuous rhythm. I rarely took the stairs up to our flat, as it had always been a notorious rendezvous that our residential drug-dealers frequented but I had discovered that the only working lift in our block had been covered in a fresh layer of sick, only half an hour ago according to the infamously eccentric and nosy Mr. Biggs, who lived on the floor below us. I met him by the entrance while he was smoking one of his old-fashioned cigars. I did not want to know whose sick it was and I am sure that if I had stayed any longer in Mr. Biggs company, he would have been obliged to tell me.

My key slid into the lock like a knife through butter and I stepped inside. It came to my attention that our door mat was looking neglected, not to mention blatantly thread-bare. I would have to nip down to pound-land some time and pick up a new one. My bag slid off my shoulder and I clocked Mum in her usual position, asleep on the couch and Uncle Tony (or “Fat Tony” as he was affectionately known, due to his partiality to doughnuts and watching the “The Sopranos”) in the kitchen. He handed me a plate of hot-buttered toast, which was instantly crammed into my mouth. 10 seconds later, I was licking grease off of my fingers and picking miniscule crumbs out of my finger nails. “How was your day” Tony inquired as I placed the empty plate into the sink. “Alright,” was the anticipated answer from me. “How was the appointment?” He paused and hesitated and then carried on as if the question had never been asked. I sighed. He was keeping something from me, and I was having none of it. “Tony, I said: How was the appointment?” Tony’s shoulders slumped and he gently placed down the glass that he had been attentively drying. “Nora, the doctor did a scan of her muscles.” His voice faltered at this last word and it took him several moments to the next part. “He said by this September, the muscles in her lungs will have… they’ll have… Nora, I think you’ve known that this was going to happen for a long time.” Tony bowed his face and his entire body, a body that, to me, had always radiated with safety and sturdiness, began to rack with sobs. I thought he was going to break. I turned him round, so he was now facing me. My heart was now racing uncontrollably and I became aware that my entire frame was shaking. I found it hard to look into Tony’s now bloodshot eyes, eyes that I had always familiarized with security. “Just tell me. Say it. Is my Mum going to die?”

He nodded.

No. No. It’s all wrong, it’s all wrong. It happens to other people, not me. All my life, I've been on the bad-side of fortune. And yet it never ceased to vomit on me. It must be wrong, something must have gone wrong.The...the... tests or...something. The doctor's wrong. No, no, no, it's all bloody wrong! Mum was going to recover; Sam was going to come out of jail and… Oh, God. Sam. He didn’t know. When would we tell him, how would we tell him? Tony’s voice broke up my thoughts. “I’ll telephone the school. You can stay at home. I’ll stay and sleep on the couch.” I took a look at Mum. My Mum. Tony came over and lifted up her frail, breakable frame to our bedroom. He laid her on the bed and I came to sit with her. She didn’t stir in the slightest, though her breathing became noticeably more rattled and infrequent. I stroked her matted and slightly damp hair and then, my lips brushed against her thin, dry and bloodless ones. I dragged my school bag into the room and put it by my blow-up bed. I neglected to mention anything about the school trip.  I slipped off my shoes and socks and I lowered myself down onto the mattress. I didn’t cry. I just stared at the ceiling.

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