4 white walls. 3 over bright lights. 2 dying lilies. 1 curtain bare window.
The same as yesterday, the same as every day. Every morning I awaken to the clean smelling, light filled room in the hospital. Mums nowhere to be seen, after the doctors told her my cancer had worsened she hadn't left my side. The nurses come and go they make sure I'm comfy; everyone makes sure you're comfy when you're dying. I don't pay attention what they do, there's some prodding followed by a sharp pinch where my IV is. Refill day my favourite, fresh new chemicals to pump in me.
Lunch is boring, pizza and chips, it's not the good kind it's the cardboard kind chewy and microwaved. People say your life flashes before your eyes when you're about to die, it's not true, it flashes before you every day leading up to your death. On Monday I remembered every embarrassing thing I'd ever done, Tuesday it was the teenager years and today it's the childhood memories, grazed knees and happy faces. Bluie's staring at me from the bottom of my bed. I lay back and remember my first holiday, I'm running along the sand, I can hear the waves crashing against the Devon rocks in the background and I can see mum where she lounges against dad reading her book. I wave at them as the July water trickles my ankles, I catch dad's attention and he comes racing towards me. I giggle aloud and run for my life, splashing in to the sea, he's too fast for my chubby little legs though. He throws me in the air and I feel like I'm flying, I feel on top off the world. My daydream is shattered by dad entering the room. The warm fuzzy feeling in my belly is the only reminder of the memory, it feels comforting.
Dad doesn't stay long he has to go back to work, he looks older today, greyer then usual I think the sadness is taking over him.
I sleep for the rest of the day.