Here is a story I am currently working on. This is going to be intense, so buckle your seat belts ladies and gents, and I hope you didn't want your hearts, because I'm going to rip them out of your chests!
How much time has passed? How many days, weeks; months? Everything seems to blur together, he realizes in his empty room. He can't remember the last time he saw anyone outside of the staff; even they seemed to be appearing less frequently. His entire life now, is one agonizing routine. Wake up, eat shitty food; sit through shitty transfusions before going through shitty chemotherapy and radiation treatment. Every. Single. Week; he's sick of it all. His body is weak, his heart breaking more each day when the people who promised to be there until the end don't show. This is his life now, and that realization has tears welling in his eyes.
The room, he notices somberly, doesn't change even when the seasons outside do. The walls are still white and bare. His best friend had promised to bring by pictures to hang to make it feel more like 'home', but that never happened. Not once he was given six months to live. The only window in the room is bolted closed, probably to keep him from jumping; the idea has popped into his head on more than one occasion.
His grandfather had brought some clothes by months ago but never came back; the nurses are kind enough to wash them for him when they take his linens. The clean clothes he does have, are stacked in a neat pile on the only table in the room. There is a chair in the left corner, it's fabric worn and faded, where his 'older sister' would sit and read to him before she got called overseas; he really missed her. When everyone stopped coming by to see him, it was her who kept his hopes up, it was her who made him feel calm and loved when his world was crumbling around him; it was her who kept coming back until the Army needed her more.
The only personal possession he has, is the iPod that she left him before she left. It was scratched, couldn't hold anymore music on it, and outdated but he listened to it every day without fail, clutching it to his chest like a lifeline. Deep down he knows they stay away to protect themselves. He's on borrowed time after all; he can only imagine how painful it must be for them to walk in here and know time is ticking down, but didn't they also know that he's scared too? He knows he's dying. He can see it in the pale of his skin, he can see it in what's left of his hair; in his sunken eyes that hold so many emotions he can't express. Hurt, betrayal, sadness, fear.
He's lost more weight, he notices, when he puts on his clothes. They hang too loose around his waist now, drape over his body like sheets when they used to hug him like a second skin; the only thing he has left of his father, sits folded under his pillow because he dares not wear it.
His hands ball into fists at his sides and he fights back the scream that wants to rip its way up his throat. Why him? Why did this have to happen to him? What did he do to deserve this? The answers elude him; always seem to be so out of reach. The clock to his left strikes ten and like clockwork, there is a knock at the door. The nurse, he knows without bothering to open it. It's always the same nurse.
"Mind if I come in?" Her question reaches him even as she opens the door, not waiting for his answer, and her smile has him clenching his teeth. What is there to smile at? He's dying for fuck's sake. He doesn't speak, instead content to let her draw the usual, obscene amount of blood before she takes him for his chemo and radiation. That's the worst, he thinks. It always makes him sick to his stomach after. He can't eat, he can't drink; he just ends up laying in bed, wishing for whatever God is out there to save him from this nightmare. His prayers never get answered though. The Chaplin came in one day, trying to give him some hope, spouting off some bullshit about God never giving him more than he can handle, but he just scoffed and crossed his arms. What kind of 'God' gives him cancer? What kind of 'God' has the balls to curse an 18 year old boy with inoperable stage four metastatic melanoma? As far as he is concerned, 'God' could suck his dick.
"-to go?" Her words snap him from his thoughts and he looks to her, his body stiffening when he feels her hand on his shoulder.
"I'm sorry, what?" Is all he can reply with because he knows if he says anymore his voice will start to shake.
"I asked if you were ready to go," she repeats and motions him to the door, "everyone is waiting for you and I'll have your lab results when we get there so I can adjust the dosage. You shouldn't get sick today."
Yeah she says that every time, and he gets sick every time. He's not holding his breath anymore; he's not hoping for the best. He knows what's going to happen and he's resigned himself to his fate. Life's a bitch, and then you die, his sister would tell him and before he didn't really believe her. Now though, going through what he does on a daily basis, the transfusions, the radiation, the solitude, he finally understands. Life is indeed a bitch.
The halls are empty as always, the fifth floor housing nothing but fellow cancer patients; the blue pain on the walls having seen better days. The room he's led to is large, holding many reclining chairs, each one filled with a face he recognizes. They were all just like him, dying. Some have less time; some more, but all dying none the less. How many more times will he see their faces? Two? Four? Will today be his last time? He swallows hard at the thought and shoved his hands into his pockets. Yes, he thinks, today will be the last day he sees them. Because he's on borrowed time, this will be his last treatment before stopping all life sustaining care. It makes him sick to his stomach just thinking about it, but he wants to be gone before his sister returns from her tour. She had enough to worry about before adding him to the mixture.
"They've been waiting for you." The nurse says lightly before opening the door, and he can only nod and force a smile as he always does. This was a routine after all.
"Hey guys." His voice is steady, for now and he walks to his usual chair.
"Hey Natsu." They reply as one and for the briefest of moments, he feels like he belongs.
And that will wrap up chapter one! Please review if you liked it or otherwise all feedback is encouraged and loved.
Regards,
dark