The Puppet Master

*Emilie's POV*
As soon as I walk in and close the oak door behind me, my 'Smotherer' pounces from the darkness of the hall.
"It's 5:40! I was getting worried!" she gasps, smoothing my hair away from my face.
"Why?" I sigh. "You wanted me back for 6." She deflates.
I wander into the kitchen to the left and reach for some dried fruit. She stalks me.
"So what happened with your appointment?" She asked.
"Nothing much. Usual. West has a new tattoo is all."
She looks quizzically at me, her eyes asking for details, but I act like I don't notice. Then I grab my bag again.
"Hey, mum, I'm gonna pop out and visit grandma." I say, slamming the door with my fruit in hand before she can object.

She runs out to try and stop me, but I've timed it perfectly so I hop aboard a bus - despite the incident earlier.
My 'friend' is still on the damn bus, but I don't feel like walking 10 miles to the elderly care home, so I stay put.
I sit across from him- unwillingly, no seats.- but he doesn't seem to recognise me, thank the Goddess!

Reception is whirring; phones going, nurses chattering, etcetera.
I sign in and make my way to my grandma's room.
I knock twice gently then come in, bracing myself.
"Hey, Grandma!" I say with an apprehensive smile.
"Lucille! I'm so glad you're home from school, dear!"
I flinch, this always happens. "Gran," I say gently. "I'm Emilie, your Granddaughter, your daughter, Lucille died before I was born." I try in vain, as always.
"Oh now don't you try that silly nonsense with me!" she says sternly. "You think I wouldn't recognise my own daughter!?"
"Of course, Gran."
"Gran!? Don't try to make me feel old, now, young lady!"
I look down. "Sorry, mum." I say, same old.
She takes my hands and guides me to a pink pouffe.
"So! How's that hot teacher of yours!?" First question. As usual.
"The science teacher?" I play along to the script. "Rumours are that he's running away with the, married, maths teacher!" I say, leaning in conspiratorially. She gasps, and we play through the script.
Of course, we don't really have a script. She can't remember a thing, so she asks the same questions each time I come. She doesn't remember the last time I visited. We get to the third question, "How's that Stilowski boy who likes you?" before she looses track and loops back to the start.
She hasn't even asked the first question again before she slumps asleep.
I grab the tartan from the radiator and drape it over her.
I leave her to sleep.
I reach the door and pull it shut behind me- I can't help it, I fall against the oak abd slump down, rivers roll down my cheeks.
She's fading so fast.
Damn Altzheimers.
She can't even remember me.
She doesn't remember that Lucille died.
Damn Lucille! She was hit by a drunk driver at 15, two years before I was born. There was a 5 year age gap between her and my mum, but they were close.
Last year, I turned 15.
Last year, my mum couldn't look at me without seeing her. Last year, my mother stopped loving me.
Last year was the last time my Grandma called my name.
I can't help it.
I cry.
Isn't it awful to love something that death can touch?

Notes

-TheBunnyRegimeQueen
So, any broken hearts yet? No? Well, it's going to get worse.

Bledsgbdtbvuujcsgvjkfd...... I am typing random gibberish, because nobody actually reads the notes anyway, so nobody will pay attention.