by Pamela S Thibodeaux

Created on: March 18, 2010

Tomorrow didn’t come.

Ace felt the coldness like a slap in the face when he walked into a too quiet house. His voice echoed off the walls when he called for his parents. His heart sank into his stomach when all he heard in reply were deep sobs from the den. He raced in and beheld a sight too painful, too horrible to describe.

His father knelt on the floor by the couch where his mother lay since that morning. It didn’t take a genius to know that she was no longer among the living. The whole room reeked of death. Dark. Dank. Its icy fingers clawed at Ace’s heart and scraped his soul until his breath hitched in and out in an attempt to get oxygen through his body.

"Daddy?" He whispered but the word echoed in the room like a blast of gunshot.

Craig looked up; the sound of his son’s voice penetrated the emotions in his soul, "Ace." He stood to block his son’s view. "Call 911, Ace."

Ace took a step, one agonizing step, nearer, "Mama?" His voice quivered.

"Ace," Craig put his hands on his son’s shoulders to stop him. "I can’t wake her up, Ace." He spoke softly, gently. "Call 911."

Ace jerked from his father’s grasp. "No!" Pushing him out of the way he knelt beside his mother’s still, cold, form. "Mama! Wake up! It’s me, Ace!" He shook her none too gently. "Wake up, Mama!" Pulling her in his arms, he clung to her lifeless form while sobs ripped through him.

Craig stumbled blindly to the phone on the desk and called the emergency number. With all of his strength, he prayed for the ability to make the next call, thankful when his son-in-law answered the phone.

Stanley Morrison stared blankly at the phone in his hand unable to comprehend what he’d just been told, unaware that his wife had walked in the room. Her voice pulled him out of the shocked trance.

"Who called?"

He turned his face a mask of shock and disbelief. Tears filled his eyes. His hand trembled and he fumbled to hang up the phone. The emotions clouding her husband’s eyes sent a shiver of fear down Amber’s spine. She took a step back, "Stanley?"

"Amber," he whispered and reached for her. His mind searched for the right words, words to make the telling easier. There were none.

"That was your father," he said, his voice rough with unshed tears, raw with emotion. "Sweetheart, your mom, he can’t wake her up. She’s, oh, God, Amber, she’s dead." Amber stared up at him, her eyes wide, uncomprehending, while his words echoed through the room. A frown creased her brow.

She shook her head. "Dead, how; how can that be?"

Stan pulled her in his arms. "I don’t know, My Sweet."

She pushed him away. "No. She can’t be dead. There’s got to be a mistake."

Fear snuck in, stealing her breath. She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth to stop the scream that welled in her throat from escaping and shook her head again. The shock and grief in his gaze tore at her soul.

"No, Stan, please. Tell me it’s not true. It can’t be true." She began to sob. "Stanley, please," she pleaded, begging him to tell her something, anything, anything but the truth.

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