Jack once hid his football boots under his pillow, afraid of leprechauns. Now the pillow is no longer a hiding place—it is a graveyard of dreams.
He is nine, yet smaller than his six‑year‑old sister. His body is a fragile outline, legs like brittle twigs, ribs like broken music beneath skin that no longer belongs to a child. The tumour has reshaped his head so cruelly that his Kerry beanie sits untouched, a relic of a boy who used to run, laugh, play. Lisa presses it to her face each night, choking on screams that leave her hollow.
Two nights ago, Jack begged his father to carry him. Agony struck like lightning. His body folded, his voice vanished, and when it ended he whispered, fragile as dust: “Da… did I do something wrong? Is that why it hurts me?”
Lisa has not slept in days. She rocks in the vinyl chair, carving her own arms with her nails, as if pain might wake her from this nightmare. At night she crawls into the corridor, retching against the wall, begging the silence to undo reality. Sometimes she bruises herself whispering, “Wake up, wake up,” because she cannot accept that this is real.
Mike no longer speaks. His lips move only to repeat: “He’s only nine.” They found him with a cord around his neck. He did not resist when they cut him down. He only asked, hollow and broken, “How do we live after he’s gone?”
Morphine is measured in farewells. Doctors speak only of “when.”
Ellie, his little sister, slipped a drawing beneath his pillow: the two of them lifting the Sam Maguire, green and gold forever. Jack touched it with fingers that no longer close and asked: “Mammy… when I’m dead, will you still come to watch me play?”
Lisa’s scream tore through the ward, a sound beyond human grief. She collapsed over him, clawing at the sheets, begging the monster to take her instead.
Jack still breathes. Barely. Each rasp is a blade cutting deeper into the hearts of those who love him.
There is no hope. No future. Only the slow, merciless theft of a child’s life, and the unbearable silence that waits to follow.
He is nine. Nine. And the world is already preparing to go on without him.
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thank you for taking the time to read this post godbless you all xx
Organizer
