Hi! This is my first story. Please RR, but with constructive Criticism, Not Rudeness

What would you do if you knew you only had 30 days to live? That's what Henry Sedaw had thought about from the beginning. Because honestly, he really didn't know. He didn't want to find out. He never asked for this. But nonetheless, he had gotten it. It was unfair and unjust and it just screamed out how cruel and ironic and loving and desperate the world could be all at one time. He had been diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor. Inoperable. All the way back in his medulla obligata. It was killing him. It was eating away at the resources of his body, a hungry force, draining his life bit by bit. At times he thought he could hear it, ringing out in its horribly high-pitched voice.

Hi there. He-He. It's me old, pal and we're in it together to the end. Don't worry. I'll keep you company. We can look back on the good times together and laugh. We can look bad on the bad times and cry. But whatever you do, do it fast, because the price of having me for company is pretty damn high. Pretty damn high indeed. But it's worth it.

It was like a long lost lover and nails on a chalkboard and listening to music and cats fighting all at the same time.

The doctors

(WHATWERETHIERNAMESAGAIN? WHOKNOWS? WHOCARES?)

Told him all of this was going to happen. It could not be stopped. Look to quality of life not quantity. It will be over quick, but it will be painful, not to mention expensive to keep him alive to the end. He might also start to suffer from schizophrenia and all those other fun neurotic diseases. What had Sal called them? Oh yeah. Crazy Bin Colds.

Sal was his best (if not only) friend. He was sarcastic and a little bigoted, but still, they grew up together and they were friends. His wife had gotten the worst of the pain. Sometimes, when he was in the treatment center by himself (Sheila had wanted to come, but he refused to let her.) he could feel her dying in his heart the way he could feel himself dying in his brain .It was horrible, describable only as that. It could only be called horrible because there was nothing else to be compared to. She would sometimes look at him and start to cry, and there was nothing he could do without making her feel worse. She would spend entire nights looking up his disease on the Internet, and then burst into sobs. If she hadn't cried or drunk herself to sleep by 5 a.m., be damned if she wasn't working on it. This was killing her too, Henry knew it. He could feel it. And sometimes, he felt angry. Why should she be crying? It wasn't her who was dying. She wouldn't be worm food in the next month. He sometimes wanted to shake her and say: "What is wrong with you? I'm Dying! ME! LIVE! DON"T LET ME DYING KILL YOU!" But he knew that would only hurt more. He was dying. He never asked for this.

That was the prolouge. Kind of short, but it's a taste of what to come. Please RR