Shane O’Callaghan

Room 313

When I was young, maybe eight, my mum and I drove three hours in the freezing cold and pounding rain towards Dartford, London. The storm had been raging for nearly ten hours now, every few minutes a bright crack splintered through the sky and a low rumble sounded. On the drive up, I had imagined the home smelling old and dusty something unique, the smell of finality I suppose. As we arrived, my mum grasped my hand lightly and explained to me again that James had already entered late-stage dementia, that he required around-the-clock care and not to panic if I saw tubes or nurses around him. Images of a half-man-half-machine person entered my mind, some kind of monster from my night terrors. A horrible being who was hardly human anymore, kept alive only by machinery. The panic must have shown on my face but my mum remained calm. I have realised only in memory that she held tears in her eyes and how strong she must have been to fight them and keep them from falling. I glanced toward the home. There was one lone light in the darkness. One black lantern hung lowly from a lintel, covering the top third of the door.