Sunday Six Sentences
Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project -- published, submitted, in progress, for your cat -- whatever.
He doesn’t dare get to where he can see the person in the bed, but he can see his mom, the way her shoulders slump and her back curves. He has an urge to run to her, to pull her out of that room, out of this town, to go back home where there aren’t all these questions, to where he doesn’t feel like he’s walking around in a mostly forgotten dream.
Then his mom is standing up and walking in his direction, and he has to hide so she won’t see him; once she rounds the corner, he starts back toward the waiting room. She’ll get there first, but he can just say he went to the bathroom.
But he has to know. He jogs up to the brightly-lit room and looks inside. There’s a woman in the bed, dark hair, pretty. He looks at the name on the door: Regina Mills.
He doesn’t dare get to where he can see the person in the bed, but he can see his mom, the way her shoulders slump and her back curves. He has an urge to run to her, to pull her out of that room, out of this town, to go back home where there aren’t all these questions, to where he doesn’t feel like he’s walking around in a mostly forgotten dream.
Then his mom is standing up and walking in his direction, and he has to hide so she won’t see him; once she rounds the corner, he starts back toward the waiting room. She’ll get there first, but he can just say he went to the bathroom.
But he has to know. He jogs up to the brightly-lit room and looks inside. There’s a woman in the bed, dark hair, pretty. He looks at the name on the door: Regina Mills.