Chapter One

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I had just turned 17 and my father (my ever present, scolding father) had decided, entirely upon himself as I was not included in his idea at all, I was depressed. When he told me this I laughed-long and hard and the moment I saw his face I regretted it but I didn't tell him that. Anyway, of course I was depressed-not I want to kill myself depressed but depressed enough not to have the drive to get out of bed or think of anything but dying and Cancer (did I forget to mention I had that?). I had even lost the interest I had in my Guitar my father began to worry more then, he disapproved of my love of the instrument but he knew how much it meant to me (I basically played it non-stop for a little under four years). So my father's brilliant plan to get me to brighten up (his words not mine) was to send me to a Support Group…..yes because a room full of other dying, depressed people would definitely make me feel better.

I had been going to the Support Group for two months already and everyday was the same.

First we all arrived at the at St. Peter's Parish Church in Woolten on Saturday in the Afternoon. Once we were all inside we rearranged the chairs to form a 'sharing circle'.

Secondly we'd introduced ourselves: Name. Age. Diagnosis. And how we were doing that day. When the circle finally all looked at me I'd say: my name is Paul, I'm 16, I have Leukaemia and I'm doing shit, thanks. I got shocked and disapproving looks each time, especially from our Support Group leader Mal Evans. The only person who laughed was the person next to me. A boy by the name of George Harrison, he was a year younger than me and he had throat cancer (we'd often joke about him being a heavy smoker and him dying with that weighed on his chest, we got even more disapproving looks at that).

George was a happy, funny, sick, lovely boy and he was the only thing that kept me sane during each support group. He was my best friend. He truly was.

Once all the introductions were complete Mal would ask every one of us if we had anything to share. To me that was the worst part. And so began the hour of tears and encouraging words (I'm not being cynical, it's not like I hate other people showing weakness and being strong…it's just i made a promise to never cry at one of these stupid meetings and hearing the terrible things all these people have gone through brought hot tears to my sunken eyes).

There was one girl by the name of Jane Asher who sat opposite me during these groups. She was beautiful and so lively, she always had a smile and a laugh ready but she wore long sleeves and jumpers too big for her and when all the attention was somewhere else or when she thought no-one was looking Jane got really quiet and sad and I couldn't look at her eyes without wanting to cry at how unfair everything was.

One young boy, Bob Dylan, would stand up and say something that didn't make any sense but by the end of his speech about something that didn't make sense everyone would clap and tell him how amazing and inspirational his words were. He annoyed me, simply because whatever he said never inspired me in anyway.

There were more people who stood up and talked about how they were getting on and how strong they were and when their show and tell started to sound too rehearsed George would nudge me and we'd share a look and try our hardest not too laugh.

"I don't want to go" I said simply the next Saturday when my father told me to get ready for support group.

"What?" He asked but he didn't sound surprised, he just sounded tired and I felt guilty at that.

"I'll start to play my Guitar again if you just don't make me go" I wasn't going to but I couldn't go to support group, sure I loved being with George and laughing away our illnesses but the whole room depressed me.

My father only shook his head at me before walking out of my room.

"Get up." My younger brother Mike, well his names Peter but he likes Mike but I have no idea why, I hate both names, glared at me from the door to my room.

"What?" I asked uninterested.

"Please" I looked at my brother and saw the raw sadness and pleading in his eyes and not even 20 minutes later I was ready.

I walked in side by side with George and I noticed something knew straight away. Two new people. One was a blonde kid and the other…the other had his hair done up like an old styled Teddy Boy, he was wearing a checked shirt and tight black pants and it took me a second to realise he was staring at me (only took me less than to determine he was hot….wait, did I forget to mention I was gay?).

"Who's he?" I hissed the question at George and my face began to flush when I saw the boy with the checked shirt start to grin.

"Him?" George asked dumbly. "I dunno"

"Why do I keep you around?" I asked fondly and patted his head (He didn't have much hair, You see-Just like me) and I laughed when George tried to bite my hand out of protest.

I snuck a glance back at the unnamed boy and was surprised to find that he was still staring at me. I had to resist the erge to march over to him and ask him what his problem was but my problem was that I was too shy.

So I just pulled George over to the seats and sat down, not even a second later the boy in the checked shirt and his blonde friend came and sat opposite of us. I tried to get him off my mind and instead I just thought about where Jane was going to sit.

He was still staring at me though.