FIVE
but it didn’t bother Tristan. He made his way down the hall without even having to think about it, then took an elevator to the fourth floor.
“Hi, Tristan,” an older nurse at the front desk greeted him as he stepped out of the elevator.
He gave her a polite nod but didn’t say anything in response.
“Those are beautiful,” she said, eying the array of colorful flowers in his hand. “I’m sure she’ll love it.”
He offered a small smile, not bothering to tell her that he understood his mother’s condition a lot better than when he was fifteen. His mother was in a coma, and every year that passed, it was less likely that she would wake up.
Unlike most coma patients, however, his mother’s body hadn’t disfigured. She was just as beautiful as the day the accident at the lab happened. The doctors explained that although her body was still functioning, her mind was gone. She wouldn’t love the flowers. She wouldn’t even know they were there. But bringing them anyway made Tristan feel just a little less useless, and it gave him a reason to visit.
He pushed the door to her room open and spotted his father standing by the window, talking on his cell phone. Tristan grabbed the dead flowers from his mother’s nightstand and dumped them in a small trash bin in the restroom. It took him only a few seconds to refill the vase with fresh water from the sink and arrange the new flowers.
He returned the vase with the vibrant flowers to his mother’s side just as his father hung up the phone.
“I’m glad you’re here.” His father crossed his arms and leaned back on the window ledge. “We need to talk.”
“About?”
When his father lowered his gaze, a shot of nerves traveled down Tristan’s spine.
“What is it?” Tristan asked.
“It’s about your mother,” his father said, lifting his eyes to meet his son’s. “It’s been three years and the doctors aren’t seeing any improvement.”
Every muscle in Tristan’s body tensed. “But she’s also not getting worse.”
“So, what, we should just keep her like this?” his father asked, an edge of pain in his voice. “For how long?”
“For as long as it takes—”
“It’s cruel and you know it.” His father’s voice was firm. “This is not what she would’ve wanted.”
Tristan looked away from his father, biting his tongue. How would he know what his mother would’ve wanted if he was never around? They never talked. Never laughed. The only common interest they shared was their hatred of the anomalous kind. While his father trained trackers in his district, his mother worked as a biochemist in a lab. They made a good team, but they didn’t love each other.
Tristan took a seat next to his mother and reached for her hand. He watched her face for any sign of recognition that she could feel his touch, but there was nothing. Her peaceful expression remained emotionless--as it had for three years.
“This is not a decision I am making lightly,” his father added.
“Why now?” Tristan asked, keeping his eyes on his mother.
“Our anniversary is coming up in a week,” his father said, running a hand over his hair. ”And that will be my gift to her.”
“Your gift?” Tristan chuckled in disbelief. “That’s what you call killing her?”
His father stepped forward with a hiss. “I didn’t kill her. Those freaks did, three years ago. All I’m doing is setting her free from this prison.”
Tristan clenched his jaw. “Call it whatever you want.”
“I don’t expect you to understand,” his father continued. “After all, you’re just like her. You let your emotions cloud your judgment. That’s not a strength, son. It’s a weakness.”
Tristan didn’t respond. It wouldn’t make a difference anyway.
His father pulled a chair and sat on the other side of his wife’s bed, across from Tristan. “The only way to make this right is to eradicate those freaks from the face of the Earth,” he said, his voice low but firm. “That’s where our focus needs to be.”
They didn’t agree on much, but Tristan couldn’t argue with that. He wanted to get rid of those freaks just as much as his father did. As much as his mother did. But it still didn’t change the fact that he wasn’t ready to give up on his mother. There was still hope. There had to be.
“I’m sorry, Tristan,” his father said, rising to his feet. “But my decision is final.”
Tristan’s stomach churned as a wave of sadness washed over him. “What if she improves?” he asked, pushing through the lump in his throat.
“She won’t--”
“What if she does?” Tristan pressed.
His father must have seen the desperation in his eyes because he let out a long sigh.
“If she does…then I will reconsider.”
His father spoke with a hint of annoyance, just as he used to when Tristan was little and walked into his office.
“But if there isn’t any improvement before the day of our anniversary in one week…” He motioned at the machines around his wife’s bed. “We will be shutting all of this off.”
Tristan’s jaw clenched, and he tightened his grip around his mother’s hand. The mere thought of letting her go made him nauseous, but he kept himself composed while his father was in the room. Once he left, Tristan leaned close to his mother’s ear with his heart aching.
“I will do whatever it takes to save you, Mom,” he whispered, pushing through the tightness in his chest. “Whatever it takes.”