A/N halo everybody! i seriosly (- spelled that wrong!) dont know where this came from! i was depressed oaky. for this story i'll try to update it every day. the chapters wont be as long as my other stories, but there will be alot... so read and reveiw!
-Soul Eater Death Scythe OUT!
Thoughts of Survival
Chapter 1 Thoughts
He sat up in the hospital bed, panting, clutching his head, and running his fingers through his hair. "Just a bad dream." He keeps telling himself. He laid his head on the back board. He's been here for who-knows-how-long. His eyes blood-shot from the lack of sleep, match his eye color. His white hair shines with the sunlight as it shines through the window.
Why he's in here you ask? He's not entirely sure why, but it's some kind of disease. Killing him slowly from the inside out. But, he's okay with that. He's willing to take anything that comes his way. Even if that means dying.
In his dreams, he dreams of being on a stage. Free to do whatever he wants, but, he doesn't want that. Instead, he sits down on a little black bench. In front of him, a large, black grand piano. He doesn't play it though. He doesn't have the courage. The white haired boy is weak, helpless, confused and… courage less.
As he lays there, he's thinking of how hi life would have turned out. Not being in here? In this bed. Alone. Would it be different? He knows it would be, but here he is. Sitting cross legged on this hospital bed, reading the book his mother would come to read him every last day of the month. That's the only time he sees her. Hears her voice. Only on the last days of the months.
To feel love. What is it like? Is it soft? Or is it a warm feeling in your chest? He's never been outside his hospital door to even see it.
Hope. Is it a good feeling? To know you have hope? He barely knows what it means. He has hope; hope to feel the outside ground with his bare feet. To wear something other than hospital shirts and pants. To have hope…
Instead of having hope, he's learning to read, write and even walk. A fourteen year old boy, still learning to read walk and write? Crazy? Not really, he's in here for a reason. To learn about this stuff and to cure this disease.
Everyday he tells himself, 'talking is a waste of time. Air. And your life. He tells the doctors that every time they ask him how he's feeling. So he doesn't talk much. He's one of the only patients to not talk in the hospital. Unless… it's his tutor. His mother.
Someday in his dream, he'll finally have the courage to open up the cover and play. He knows it. In that black and red checkered floored room. With the big black piano. Blue light surrounding it. Sometimes he wishes, he won't ever wake up. It makes him feel safe, yet… courage less. Because of that cover, his life feels like a small infant. Never independent, always needs someone to take care of you, take him places. Teach him stuff every other fourteen year old boy should already know.
He sits there, on the bed. Staring at the page. Trying to read it. But he can't. Every day he looks at that page, trying to read them. But he's stuck looking at the pictures instead. Because he CAN'T read. He only has one book. He looks through it every day. Sometimes the nurses would watch him through the window, mumbling something he can't hear. Probably that he looks at this page every day. It's special. It's the only thing he has of his mother, when she's not there.
For now, all he has to talk to is his tutor every day. He gets a tutor tomorrow. He wonders who or what is going to teach him…
