Hope is Candied Cyanide: Caustically Saccharine, Wonderfully Tragic

A Fictional Short Story by Maya Shadid

My rough brown leather sunk beneath the weight of the man, each fissure in my skin expanding as he sat. He patted my left armrest, three slow, steady pulses as if to say, “Good armchair, my armchair.” And, I was. His. In the years that I’d been in that living room, that corner in which my clunky body was deposited, I’d always been his favorite. Often, I found myself pondering why. Perhaps it was the simplicity of my craft: rugged, natural, unpolished. Perhaps there was comfort in the routine, a routine that formed every scratch on my surface, tear in my lining, dehydrated crack along my flaking flesh. No matter the reason, there is a permanent divot in my cushion from where his hefty body sat, day after day. 

The tension on my springs made me groan as he shifted around, and with much effort, I pushed back against his bottom to support the heaviness. 

“Genevieve!” he called out. His rich, buttery voice bounced off the walls, warmth intertwining with each syllable. 

“Coming, darling,” his lovely wife replied from down the hall, an efforted tone coating her words. Her footsteps sounded more forceful than usual, and when she entered the room, it became apparent why. Their child giggled in her mother’s arms. At seven years old, she was getting too big to be carried. I winced as Genevieve placed the girl in the man’s lap, feeling my threads strain. 

When they settled, the man took hold of his child’s hand. “Mommy and I have some big news for you, little one.” Of course, I already knew; I heard them discussing it the other night, excitedly plotting when to tell the girl. They tend to share all the “big news” in my presence.

“You’re going to be a big sister!” Genevieve exclaimed, and a burst of excitement blossomed from the child, electrifying the room. Strings of fabric snapped within me as the mother joined her husband and daughter, but in that beautiful moment, as the four of us embraced, I determined it was worth it. I wish I’d cherished it more. Our days for joy were numbered.

***

My rough brown leather shuddered beneath the weight of the man, but it was different. Lighter. I tensed slightly to support him. He looked toward his beautiful wife who sat with their daughter on a nearby sofa. A smile adorned his lips as he admired Genevieve’s baby bump. She was growing and growing and… he was shrinking. The smile faded. There was big news to be shared. 

I knew before he did. I saw it developing: the languish. I felt it churning: the hole. There was a pit of darkness buried deep within him, sucking his body into itself, slurping his spirit like spaghetti. Sickness. Illness.

“Cancer?” the child whispered after her parents explained. Confused fear radiated off of her like steam, a thick humidity in the air. She turned to Genevieve and instinctively scooched closer as if her mother could make it all go away. But, alas, the man was dying. When the gashing reality materialized in her mind, I felt the tendrils of that wicked darkness slither toward her, too. She would never be the same. 

“No, no, Daddy, no,” she sobbed. She screamed. She crumpled into a ball. Gasping, thrashing, desperate. The man trembled; I felt wet globs of snotty tears pool in my pores. Then, everything went unnervingly quiet. The girl slowly lifted her head, bloodshot eyes widening. An idea struck her. She pointed a tiny finger at her mother’s belly and grinned. “He’s coming back. Mommy, you’ll make him again. He’s coming back!” She snapped her head toward her father. “You’ll be my brother, and I’ll take care of you this time. You’ll never get sick again.” 

A chuckle slipped from Genevieve’s lips; she couldn’t help it. At that moment, the notion was so absurd that it distracted from her sadness. “Darling, you can’t possibly think…”

“Stop, stop it! He’s coming back,” the girl shrieked, sobs melting into her syllables. She rambled on incoherently, but her voice echoed between each cry, “My brother, my brother, my brother.”

***

My rough brown leather didn’t even quiver. Light, so light, so hollow as he sat. The end was near. In his last days, the man determined that he needed one last joy - something tender and hopeful. Crafting this moment began with a phone call, then two, then ten, then too many to count. Every family member, friend, neighbor, and colleague was there for the celebration. Presents and pastries covered every inch of available countertop, and for the first time in months, the house was lively again. In the living room, people mingled and chatted on the couches. The once-vivacious man now struggled to muster words, energy fleeting with each strained breath. Instead, he closed his eyes and listened. The corner of his lip twitched subtly; I alone knew he was smiling. 

“Everyone, everyone!” Genevieve said brightly. “It’s time!” She walked toward her husband and me, and she slightly leaned against my side as she stood. I felt as though I was peering into a memory, a honeyed haze, watching the pure happiness painted across her countenance. It was enchanting. The spirited crowd gathered around us. “Evie, dear,” the woman called out, and the girl scampered to her mother’s side. Then, everybody turned to the man. A fluffy cake, decorated with pink and blue frosting, was placed on the coffee table in front of him. His feeble body trembled as he carved out the first slice and peered at the color within. A tear trickled from his eye, and he smiled sadly as he whispered, 

“It’s a girl.”