Story Snippet #6

 So sorry it's taken so long for the second half of Chapter 3 to materialize on this blog. I'll probably have to stop putting up snippets of Going Ballistic sometime . . . or else, if and when I finish it, buying it won't be necessary cause you could read it for free off my blog. *grins and then winces* But it hasn't come to that yet. I can't very well stop in the middle of a chapter and not provide the ending. So . . . here's the rest, at long last. 

Previously:

Not that I could go anywhere, anyway. She’d given me the explicit order to remain in bed unless I needed to use the bathroom. That was fine with me. With how I felt, there was no way I was going to move around more than necessary. 

To be continued:

While Mom cleaned up the lightbulb’s remains, I stared up at the ceiling and wondered what would be the next victim of Ballistic’s destructive rampage. Whoever or whatever it was, I hoped it wouldn’t be me. I didn’t think I could bear waking up like that again and having to run down a dark hallway to--

   “Hey, Mom?”

   “Mmm-hmm?” She glanced up.

   I watched as she carefully picked up the largest shard and dropped it into a plastic bag. “Why was the hall so dark?”

   An unexpected smile curved Mom’s lips. “Because the light was off, Jimmy. Why?”

   I burrowed down into my sheet, suddenly feeling very embarrassed, now that I’d had a chance to think about my dramatic actions. “Uh, nothing,” I mumbled into my pillow. “It’s just that I couldn’t really see when I was going down the hallway.”

   I heard Mom’s light chuckle and felt her pat my back comfortingly. “It’s okay, honey. I turned it off because I hoped it would make it easier for you to sleep, without light shining through your door vent.”

   “Oh. Thanks.”

   It was getting way too hot under the sheets, so I pushed my covers off my head and peeked over the bed just in time to see Mom rise from her kneel and brush off her pants. 

   “I’m going to have to use the vacuum cleaner on the rest of this,” she told me, heading for the door. “I’ll be back.”

   I watched to make sure Mom closed the door before I relaxed into my memory foam mattress and let out a sigh of relief. If I saw Ballistic in my room again after what just happened, it would be too soon. Actually, if he ever went near me again, it would be too soon.

   By the time Mom came back, my head was pounding again and my face felt flushed. It didn’t help that the vacuum cleaner was not the quietest, and within a few minutes of listening to the constant rattling buzz, my headache had returned with a vengeance. 

   “Hey, Mom?” I asked, pushing my sheets down to my waist.

   She turned to me, lampshade in hand. “Yes, honey?”

   I twisted my neck around so that I was facing her. “My headache’s back.”

   “I’m sure it is,” Mom agreed, turning off the vacuum and coming over to me. She gently placed her hand on my neck. “Do you still feel hot, too?” When I nodded, she rose from the bed and began rearranging my sheets. “Make sure you drink enough water,” she reminded me, tilting her head in the direction of my nightstand.

   “Okay.” When she turned to leave, I suddenly felt an impulse to ask her the question that had been bothering ever since I’d poured out my complaints about Ballistic. “Mom?”

   She turned back to me. “Yes?”

   I hesitated. Now that I really thought about it, it seemed like a really silly question. One that I never would’ve doubted before Ballistic came. But I had to know. So I licked my lips and blurted out, “Mom, are you glad I’m your son?”

   She instantly walked over, sat down on my bed, and gave me a searching look. The why-would-you-ask-such-a-thing mom look. “Of course. Why would you think otherwise?”

   I squirmed under my sheets. It had been eating away at me ever since I saw the slight look of exasperation on her face when I came tearing down the hall this morning. “Well,” I murmured, heat rising in my cheeks, “I just thought-- I mean, I’m so-- silly. I know everyone else thinks I overreact about everything. I don’t know; I just wondered if . . . if you were glad to have me, instead of someone else who’s not, well, worried about everything.” 

   Mom drew a deep breath. “It is true that I don’t understand you all the time, to be honest. But honey, don’t you ever think that I don’t love you because you’re different. I love you because you are different. You are my little boy. While you do have some things you need to work on, I don’t expect you to be perfect. No one is.”

   I dropped my gaze to my bed covers. “Sure, but I feel like I’m a nuisance to you. Tell me the truth. Do you think I’m a nuisance?”

   Mom smiled at that. “Even if you are, just remember this: you’re my little nuisance. And I love you.” She leaned forward and gently pressed her lips to my burning forehead. “Now get some sleep, okay? We’ll talk more later.”

   I couldn’t stop the smile that curved my lips. “Okay. I love you, Mom.” 

   

Signed,

Martha