"Why are you so eager to die?"--writing prompt (following is what came from this prompt)**Revised**
When the Music Begins
Frustrated, she screamed and swiped the papers, pens, pencils, knick-knacks, snacks, and drinks off the top of the piano. She repeatedly banged her head on the piano top, screaming incoherently through each pounding. The tears flowed freely. She was powerless to stop her temper tantrum, as she called it; others might have called it an anxiety attack or something more meaningful. She hated herself for her lack of control and inability to change anything, for her weakness.
As if from out of a tunnel, soft moans of “Mom,” “Mo-o-om,” called her back to consciousness. Taking a quick moment to straighten her clothes and then rushing into the bathroom to splash some cold water on her face, she plastered on her biggest mommy-is-just-fine smile and went in to her son’s room. She fought the catch in her spirit as she looked once again on his too-tiny-for-his-age body. Choking back the sobs, she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her Precious into her arms.
He sighed contentedly as he relaxed into her, his head on her breast, feeling the solid beating of her heart telling him that it beat for him. “Mom?” he coughed.
She couldn’t stop the tears, but she could control her voice, “Yes, Sugar-Bear?” She ran her fingers through his hair, snuggling him closer and murmuring soft words of comfort.
“Why were you screaming?”
“What?” she was horrified that he had heard her. She had been so wrapped up in her own emotions, she had forgotten how thin the walls were.
“You have to finish it, Mom,” he croaked.
“No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. . . .”
She wondered “Why are you so eager to die?”
She knew, deep in her very soul, that finishing the song meant his death. There was something un-namable, something un-identifiable about the connection between her writing this song and her son’s life.
As long as she didn’t finish the song. . . she refused to finish the thought as she rocked her baby back and forth and her arms, still repeating, “No. No. No. No. No. . . .”
He hugged her back, whispering, “It’s ok, Mom. It’s ok. Yes. It’s ok. It’s ok.”
She soon felt his little body go slack in her arms. As she tucked him back in for the night, her tears continued flowing steadily. She leaned over to kiss his adorable, somehow-still-plump cheek and noticed a piece of paper clutched in his hand. She gently unfurled his fingers and smoothed out the wrinkles the best she could.
Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle her cries even as her mind registered the words written in her son’s baby scribble, “Lord, please tell Mommy that You’ve got this. Jesus, please hold Mommy tight in Your arms as You are already holding me. Tell her it’s ok, Jesus. It’s ok. . . .”
She crumpled to the floor, grabbed the extra blanket on the bottom of her son’s bed, stifling her sobs. She rocked back and forth, staring at the words on the paper until she could no longer see through her tears.
After a long time, she gently sat on the edge of the bed and took his slight hand in hers. She kissed each miniscule finger and then held his hand against her cheek as she memorized every inch of her pint-sized Precious.
Resolved, she quietly stole out of the room and went straight to her piano. She didn’t bother with all the paper and pens. Her heart knew the notes.
As the angelic music filled the tiny apartment, he smiled in his sleep and dreamed of arms opening wide to welcome him home. . . .