haze darcy, district twelve | cbd2

Mom's body is still here but her mind is lost. I don't know where she went; I think they she drowned in a bottle or a pill container. She's just a shell and she walks like a ghost — she looks like one, too. Dad never says anything about it, so it must be normal. I can't remember a time when she wasn't like this, so distant and cold and practically speechless. When she does talk, her words are shaky and brief and they never quite connect with Jem and I.

It has been just me and my sister for years now. Dad is always busy running the apothecary shop, so Jem and I spend most of our time together. It's a quite life but I like it; in the mornings, Dad makes us pancakes that are shaped like blobs, kisses us goodbye, and then we walk to school. When we return home after the occasional stop at the bakery, Jem and I help Dad with the shop — after all, we are the ones who will take it over once Dad is too old to do it. I've learned all the names of the medicines, memorized their locations like the back of hand. We'll live a quiet life when we grow up, just like our parents.

Dad says he was considering admitting Mom to the Mortuus Medical Center. Maybe it would be good for her, to find some sort of rehabilitation. Mortuus Medical Center is the only thing District Twelve has to substitute for a hospital, and the only place that we can really send Mom if she can't stay at home anymore. I don't think much will change if she leaves; there will be an empty space in the corner of the living room, but maybe that's okay.