Heartstopper

• Teresa Ariens, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2022

Thud!
“Mum? Mum?!” I forced the door open and stepped over all the books and other lifeless objects covering the ground. She was lying silently on the floor clutching her chest. I listened to her closely, putting my ear near her mouth. She wasn't breathing. Hurriedly, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and dialled 911.
“Hello, hello? It's my mum again, please come quick. She's on the floor and she's not breathing. Hurry.” I shoved my phone back into the pocket of my ripped pants and knelt down to my mother. Pushing down on her chest, I counted the compressions. “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9….” The door opened and the paramedics rushed in, carrying all the medical equipment. I moved away and sat on the couch letting them do their job. She still wasn't waking so they pulled out the defibrillator. “1, 2, 3, clear! 1, 2, 3 clear! C’mon wake up!”

My mind lingered on the word, and I thought about the good times. Mum telling me to get out of bed for school but then coming to snuggle with me anyway. I’d always hated school. My Year 3 teacher was especially the worst. Once on a camp, she forced me to get in the water when I didn't want to because it was so cold. “GET IN THE WATER NOW TOM! NOW!” she was like. “I said now! Could you please go get some water?!” I shook myself back to reality and realised one of the medics was asking me to get some water for my mum. I quickly walked to the kitchen and pulled out the iced water from the fridge. As I closed the door, I noticed the rent due sign. Ripping it off the fridge, I dropped it in the bin so the medics couldn't notice that we were behind on our bills. Ever since my dad died, we’d been struggling. Me trying to find a job and then coming home to dishes left in the sink and mum lying in bed speechless staring at the ceiling. But this time, her heart attack was worse, she was on the floor and not breathing.

Remembering what I was supposed to be doing, I poured the water into a cup and brought it back to the man whose nametag read “Derek”. I looked up at his face realizing the name sounded familiar. The eyes, beard and that scar. The scar. I raced back to my room pulling a photo album out from under my bed. Flicking through the photos I finally paused on one. It was my dad and him standing at the top of Table-Top mountain, arms hooked around each other smiling into the camera. It was him. He was the guy who killed my dad.