Impossible. A Shontelle songfic.
Magenta on leukemia and how it makes her feel. Set in Columbia's sister's house.
tell them all i know now
shout it from the roof top
write it on the skyline
all we had is gone now
tell them i was happy
and my heart is broken
all my scars are open
tell them what i hoped would be
impossible, impossible
impossible, impossible
Magenta lay in her bed, tears streaming down her face, caked with dried blood, barely able to breathe. She was positive she was about to die,
You have won you can go ahead, tell them...
She looked over at Brad, he was asleep in a chair next to her bed, he had been so focused on taking care of her that he'd forgotten about himself, typical Brad. So damn typical. She could hear Columbia talking her sister, Arlene, in the living room and Aaron was watching TV loudly.
"Brad..." Magenta whispered, before she violently choked on a cough, Brad snapped awake, rubbing her chest and holding his cupped hand under her mouth, it quickly filled with blood.
Even when Magenta was sleeping Brad sat with her, drinking until he passed out right on her bed, Columbia could always count on finding Brad and Magenta together in her guest room bed, she got that Brad loved Magenta, but the smell of alcohol in the guest room was never a good smell to have floating around in a one-storey house with two young girls, and the stress of Brad's 'small issue' was the last thing Magenta needed, Kimi and Olivia were debating whether or not they should re-admit her into hospital after copious blood transfusions, blood tests and things with long medical names Columbia couldn't be bothered to commit to memory.
Magenta's eyes opened and she looked down her chest at Brad, who was still out cold, Columbia was spraying perfume around to mask the stench of whiskey and upchuck,
"Columbia? Is Brad okay?"
"He's smahshed."
"What? Oh no..." Magenta covered her mouth, "This is my fault."
"No, Gahd, no, he juhst cahn't find an outleht for all hihs strehss." Magenta took a cigarette out of her bedside table drawer and lit up,
"Go on..."
"You shouldhn't smohke insihde."
"I have an ashtray."
"You alreahdy have leukehmia. You dohn't wahnt luhng cahncer too. Nohw wihl you stahp PMS-ing aht me?" Columbia saw Magenta run a hand over her left arm, there was a red mark, about the size of her hand on her upper arm from the past chemotherapy, usually accompanied with the familiar hemoptysis that leukemia brought on. Columbia helped her out of bed and brought her into the living room,
"Breahkfast?"
"How early is it?"
"Gahsh, I dohn't knohw." Columbia glanced at her pink rhinestone crusted digital watch, "2:00."
"It's early."
"Thaht's becauhse you sleehp 'til noon." Columbia emptied a bag of Swedish Berries into a bowl and set it on the coffee table, taking a few and impaling each one on each of her nails.
...
When Brad woke up he could hear quiet voices in the living room, he stood up and inched toward the door, opening it, he found Magenta and Columbia in the living room, watching reruns of America's Next Top Model, obviously. Brad sat down next to Magenta on the couch, she looked at him briefly, turned her attention back to the TV and whipped her head back around,
"You reek, what'd you drink last night."
"I don't think I remember... So, what's this show even about?"
"They just eliminated Kathleen." (Magenta and Columbia are watching Cycle 8, episode 2.)
"Cool..." Magenta turned back around,
"You reek of alcohol."
"Oh, sorry."
"Brad, drinking isn't going to make me not be sick, you need to stop before you hurt yourself."
"I'm fine."
"You're smashed every day. It's not healthy."
Brad wished he could fix what was happening. What she had hoped would be impossible. Leukemia had gone and effortlessly torn Magenta's life apart, the memories of her childhood were of blood, injections, chemotherapy and whatever else she had been put through, lying next to her that night with his arms tight around her delicate waist, it killed Brad to think of how those memories would persist.
Tell them all I know now,
shout it from the rooftop.
Tell them what I hoped would be,
Impossible...