The Story of a Dying Girl
Hey. What's up, apart from the sky?
So, woah. A lot of support on my last chapter, which I really did need, because I am not very confident in myself, so you can probably imagine how much reading such kind words have made me incredibly happy and are making me feel a bit more confident. So thank you so much to everyone.
I am still working on chapter 13, but I will finish that by tomorrow.
Also, sorry I barely uploaded it on the day I said I would. I just got back from a friend's party, so when I got home, I rushed to my computer like a fucking lunatic. Also, this is not me desperately trying to convince you I have a social life, because I do not.
Anyways. Let's start this motherfucker!
Chapter 12:
I have been through some things that I would have rather not have been through.
I have watched my parents become distant, and I have watched my father's car drive off, and I have watched my great aunt slowly die, and I have watched my mum go into a spiral, and I have seen so many things that I wish I had not seen.
This is not me trying to say that I have had it much worse than anyone else, because I know that life can be so much worse.
But it could have also been easier at times, I will say.
But of all the things I have seen, watching everything become even more real is the worst.
Because cancer was this idea, it was this small little side part, the background character in a movie you saw once when there was nothing else good playing.
It was just a suggestion, really.
And I was so… fucking… stupid.
I was an idiot.
Because it wasn't any of the things I thought it was.
It was a large character, one of the ones you utterly loathe.
Because watching her sitting on her bed, silently panicking, scratching her head, taking these shaky breaths is the kick in the stomach that tells you that it was a problem, not an idea.
And I suddenly remembered October, when I wasn't close to her, and I told myself that I wouldn't scream out, "Why god?! Why her?! Oh why?! Why did it have to be her?!" or something of that sort, and I was a complete fucking fool.
Because all I wanted to do was shout out, "Why?!"
This next part is gonna sound really awful, so I'm just gonna apologize in advance:
Of everyone in the school it could have been, of all the people who I know that do not mean anything to me, why did it have to be one of the people that mean the most?
Why did it have to be anyone?
And why the hell did it hurt so much more than I thought it would to watch her sitting in a chair that made her look so small?
Why did it hurt so much more that I thought it would when she was hooked up to the IV?
Because I love her.
What if she wouldn't be okay?
No, she had to be, she couldn't not be.
She just had to be.
I mean, I can't even begin to think about-
"Miss Campbell, what would the answer be?"
I look up and I see Mr. Dirken looking at me, a kinda cocky grin on his face because he knows that I have absolutely no fucking idea what he's talking about.
Not a fucking clue.
"Oxford commas?"
That was the answer to everything right?
Well, that and 42.
Apparently not because he took an over exaggerated sigh, like it physically pained him to deal with my apparent stupidity.
"No, Miss Campbell, oxford commas are not the answer. Next time, I suggest not daydreaming in class. You will need to know this. This is important. This is the key to success."
I honestly didn't think it really had anything to do with success, but I wasn't gonna argue with the tosser.
I bet he gets off on things like this.
Grammar-fetish fucker.
I continue to tune him out, because I really don't give a shit about him.
So instead I think of someone who matters, who matter quite a bit, actually:
Emily.
I think about her smile.
Her laughter.
Her boobs…
Sorry… that was a given.
Have I mentioned that I have had sex with her? Like… me… Naomi Campbell, has had sex with Emily Fitch.
And yes, everything, and I mean everything, is just as gorgeous as I thought it would be.
Not, that I thought about feeling her breasts, or anything like that.
Or what she looks like naked.
What? Me?
How dare you accuse me of that! I'm actually quite offended.
Yeah… I don't buy what I'm saying either.
I think about her red hair, I wonder if she'll lose it.
I wouldn't care, I really wouldn't.
I think she'd be gorgeous no matter how she looks, hair or no hair.
The bell rings and I'm out the door, passing through packed halls, and all I can really think of is why no one else seems to be thinking about Emily.
It was only when they first found out that they even pretended to be sad, but now they couldn't even be assed to do that.
Why do kids like Ricky Feehy get to be laughing and smiling in the halls and not have to worry about chemo? He should be concerned for her, he should care deeply about Emily, and things… well… things should be different.
They really should be.
Water should taste like mud, and songs shouldn't sound the same.
Everything should be different, because Emily Fitch is everything.
She is so fucking amazing, how would the world possibly be the same without her in it?
Mrs. Incart is sitting in her chair, and she looks sad, but I've sadly become used to that.
No one should be used to seeing a person look sad.
But she was sad, and I was used to it, and she was drinking generously from a "water" bottle, (the quotation marks indicate that I do not believe for a second that water had such a strong aroma).
She continued to drink, setting it down eventually, and taking a deep breath, and I wonder if she does the same thing each day, if she looks in the mirror and sighs, and tells herself that it will only take one more day until she is happy again, and then her husband will love her and Tiffany will fuck off, and she won't need to drink again.
I wonder if every single night she looks in the mirror and takes off all her makeup and promises herself that the next day will be different, that her students will learn something, and other teachers won't whisper about her, and that she will not have to wear so much makeup to plaster on a convincing smile, and that she won't need to look at her probably over flowing jewelry box, full of broken promises from a man she once loved, and who loved her once as well.
I wonder if one day she will stop looking at the mirror, and instead just take off her makeup and leave it off, and she will stop slurring her words because she won't be drinking, but I guess she would have done that already if she could have.
And now I'm not looking at Mrs. Incart, but instead I'm sitting next to Cook in the library, and he's telling me about his latest date with Katie, and how it was nice and how they shagged, but when he tells me about it, it feels a lot different from him telling me about his other conquests.
He doesn't have a shit-eating grin, but instead he has a kinda soft smile, one that's actually rather sweet.
"So what about you? You never did say if anything had ever happened between you and Red." He cocks an eyebrow, waiting for my response.
The part where I panic:
You see, if I could, I would have lied and told him that we had not made love. Because I kinda felt like if I did, I would have been bragging about it, like I was treating her like some tart and bragging about it, and that didn't feel right.
It was a moment between Emily and I, and it should stay that way.
Also, if he asked for details, which I wouldn't give, I would be forced to cringe at the memory of me not being to unhook her fucking bra, and staring at her tits like a twat for so long, that she actually had to guide my hands to them.
And I would remember her lovely face when she came, her the way her fingers dug into my back, which was surprisingly kinda enjoyable, and the way her body was so beautiful, or how or fringe clung to her forehead with sweat, or how she had said my name softly, or how I woke up wrapped around her, holding her tighter than anything I had ever held.
But I am not good at lying, so I stumbled my way through a lie, saying something about never, or how, or why he would think that.
He didn't buy it.
"You two totally got it on, didn't you?" And here comes his shit-eating grin.
"What? No!" I scoff, but no one would ever buy it.
"… Really? Naomio, I've known you since we were wee little shits, I know when you're trying to lie, you're shit at it."
"… Cook…"
"You totally did it! You got some!" He stands up and the chair falls backwards, resulting in a loud sound of disapproval from the librarian.
It was like a bird squawking.
"Squawk! Be quiet! Squawk! Shut up! Squawk!" Is what she called out.
Or at least, that is how it sounded to me.
"You most definitely got laid," he says quieter, but his grin is just as large.
"… Okay, so… maybe, just maybe… Emily and I… took our relationship, to the next level. Maybe, maybe not."
"… You fucked her."
"Don't say it like that."
"What, fucked?"
I don't like the way he says it. Because yes, that is what happened, we did fuck, but at the same time, it feels a bit dirty the way he's saying it, like it was a quick shag up against the club walls, and that bothers me.
"It was more than that," I say very firming, crossing my arms and sinking back into my seat.
I can tell he's about to protest or say something about my behavior, but then I see a look of understanding pass over his features.
Sometimes Cook gets it.
Sometimes it just clicks and that's because we just get each other.
Most of the time he doesn't get it, but that's just because he's Cook.
I mean, he didn't understand why Zombeavers was called that until I explained it to him, and he laughed.
"That's a fucking riot!"
… I disagreed.
But back to the library.
He slapped my shoulder a few times, like you see those guys do when they talk about some girl that they had managed to convince to shag them and their diseased dicks.
And I knew he didn't mean it like that though, so I just accepted it and smiled, denying his pleas for details.
"But I shared all of mine!"
"I didn't ask you too. In fact, I'm pretty sure I've begged you on multiple occasions to not tell me."
"I've been telling you since the fourth grade!"
Fourth grade story from Cook to Naomi:
"Hey, Naomikins!
"Yeah mate?"
"Do you know Kendra Eastreat?"
"Isn't she the pretty one with the really big nails?"
"Yeah, that's the one." He was already grinning.
"What about her?"
"We got it on behind the bike shed."
"You had sex?!"
"Okay, well… we didn't get it on get it on, but I did kiss her, like a proper snog."
"With tongue?" I made a face.
"Well… no, but… she was like proper gagging for it."
"… Isn't she the one who cried when she couldn't get down from the monkey bars?"
"…"
"You snogged monkey bar girl?!" I was full blown laughing now.
"How many girls have you snogged?"
"Zero, but at least I didn't kiss the girl who pissed herself while a teacher had to get her a ladder and call out to her with a megaphone."
"It was a high drop!"
"It was like six feet, tops."
"… Well… pissed tights girl is a good snogger."
"Did she cry afterwards? Did you have to calm her down by shouting through a megaphone?"
"Oh piss off."
"I think she beat me to it."
"Fuck off."
"'We will get you down! We will save you! Do not panic! We have a ladder, and we are coming to your rescue!'" I imitated, nearly pissing my pants with laughter.
Don't worry I didn't, pissing my own pants was more of her thing.
But let's continue with our little trip down memory lane.
Story from sixth grade Cook to sixth grade Naomi:
"Mate."
"Yeah Cook?"
"Fiona Defren."
"What about her?"
"Felt her up, didn't I?"
"What?" I was not entirely sure what I was hearing.
"You heard me. Copped a feel and everything."
"What do you mean by everything?"
"… Well, fuck that. All I know is that I felt her tits."
"Please stop telling me this."
"They felt quite nice."
"My ears are hurting."
"Pretty fucking mint. Tip top really."
"This is physically hurting me."
"Enjoyed that shit a whole fucking lot. It was well ace."
"I'm gonna go throw myself out a window or something so you'll stop."
And it continued.
Cook told me stories. I begged him not to. He told me anyways.
The worst part was when Cook's sexual conquests found out about each other.
Listen, I didn't say anything to them, and Cook and I were and are only friends with each other, so it's not like he said anything to them.
Apparently, some of his conquests liked to believe that Cook was much more than what he was. And so they would talk about it, and eventually, stories were compared, and they got pissed.
Let's just saw it involved a lot of crying from Wilma Wernersburgerson, a lot of swear words from DeeDee Trixen, and the occasional chucked apple at us, despite the fact that I had done nothing wrong, by Kristie Feebengal.
Have you ever had apples chucked at you?
The answer is most likely no, so I am going to fill you in:
It is not fun.
But that was the past and now I no longer had to worry about Kristie's deadly Granny Smiths.
And so Cook was begging me for details, and I kept telling him no, and eventually he gave up, and we went back to watching something on my phone.
"So…"
I turned to look at him.
"Yeah?"
"Emily…"
I rolled my eyes.
"I'm not telling you about the bloody shag."
"It's not that."
There was a more serious look in his eyes.
"Yeah… What about Emily?"
"How was chemotherapy?" He asked it quietly, but it wasn't because we were in the library.
It was just the kind of thing you asked quietly, even if you were like Cook, who had almost never been a quiet person.
"You know…"
But he didn't. He didn't know.
He didn't and he wouldn't and there was nothing he could say that could make it even better, because it hurts so fucking much and, oh god, oh god.
I can feel myself choking up and it hurts because all I want to do is live happily after ever with her to be honest.
And that's so fucking strange to me, because I have never seen myself riding off into the sunset with anyone, and now here I am, wishing for all those things, and now I'm so terrified, I'm so fucking terrified that I might not get them.
I have never wanted anything more than to not have to watch her stare at the IV like it's the enemy, even though it's not.
I have never wanted anything more than to not have to watch her smile falter the way it did every time we had to go to chemo.
I have never wanted anything more than I want her to be okay.
That's all I want.
And now I feel like crying in a library, because Emily Fitch is sick, and I love her so fucking much.
And…
I can't even think about a world without her in it.
Because she makes me smile, and she makes me laugh and she sends my heart into overdrive, and she makes me feel loved, and I love her fully, with all of my heart, even the little hidden crevices that all small and hardly visible.
Even those parts.
I loved her.
And the fact that it was this one person, this person, is awful.
Because, of course it had to be, the girl who I loved.
But I was now starting to hurt, like actually physically hurt, as I tried to take deep breathes and all I was getting were shallow ones, and I felt very tight, like my skin clung to me tighter, and like my lungs had been folded into origami.
And so I stopped thinking about it, because it was actually hurting me too.
Nope.
No more thinking about that.
And so I was here, sitting on Emily's bed, my jacket on her chair, on top of Carny.
It was Wednesday, and it was raining, February finally beginning, and the sky was so incredibly gloomy, as I glanced out the window.
Everything was so still.
"You know, I've always wanted to do that," Emily said, breaking the still, standing next to me, looking out the window, her face visible in the reflection of the window, and I could see her smiling.
I know I have said it so many times before, but really, sometimes I feel like I have to say it again, because in no way will I ever be able to truly make you understand this:
Her smile really was beautiful.
And I know you must be rolling your eyes, telling me that you know, that you've heard me say that countless times before, but I don't think you will ever truly know just how beautiful it was.
When I was really, really little, probably about five, my dad took my mum and I camping.
And I remember a gentle shaking, waking me up and I looked up and saw the smiling face of my dad, toothy grin, a wild look in his eyes.
"Come on sprout, you need to see this."
I rubbed my eyes the way you see all young children, yawning and rubbing my eyes with my fists.
My mum was still asleep, out cold in the sleeping bag next to me, as I got up and followed my dad out of the tent, and along this trail.
And I remember complaining until he put me on his shoulders, carrying me around and up a hill, and everything was so quiet, except for the sound of his shoes on the ground, stomping on gravel and leaves.
And here we were, on the top of this large hill, the sky so very dark out, and I was about to ask what we were doing until the sky was lite up brilliantly, the sun rising and the colors dripping into each other and the light hitting my hair, and everything so rather beautiful, still and calm, and I didn't tear my eyes away, and I was scared of blinking because I thought if I did, I would miss the sheer magic of it, and all I wanted to do was sit there forever and watch the colors mix and fall and rise and blend and look so fucking beautiful.
I had never seen anything so beautiful until I saw Emily Fitch.
And if you were to ask me if I had rather seen a thousand of those sunrises, lighting up the sky, or one of her smiles, lighting up her face, I wouldn't even hesitate to say her smile.
And so here we were, and she had told me something rather vague, obviously prompting me to figure out the specifics.
"What?"
"I've always just wanted to kiss in the rain."
Do you know those large filing cabinets in offices?
Those huge things filled with paper after paper, seeming rather endless.
Well, I had one of those for her, many actually, and somewhere in my brain, something went off, and I suddenly remembered something.
"Didn't you say that was cheesy? When you were telling me about Night of Love. Didn't you say it wasn't very meaningful?"
She smiled and I knew she was surprised I had remembered such a small detail.
"I never had someone I wanted to kiss in the rain."
And it's said rather shyly, kinda quietly, and it makes my heart soar.
Like, I'm pretty sure it would fucking fly out of my chest and fly around if that was possible and also if that wouldn't kill me.
So what can a person say to that?
I grabbed her hand and pulled her out of her room, down the 17 stairs and down the house with a fading red door.
And here I was, laughing and standing in the rain, coating me and soaking me and chilling me, and my hair was becoming a mess, but I didn't care because here was Emily laughing too, and she looked so fucking happy, so I could do with the rain and the chill and the fucking cheesiness of it.
I pulled her into me, the rain hitting our backs and… I could hear a song.
It was playing in my head, pounding along with my heart.
You speak in tongues I can't resist
You run me 'round I cannot think
We're driving to your parents' house just for a visit and I'm sleeping in your brother's bed
Won't you sneak into my room and climb under the covers talk nonsense in your sleep
(Wild Nothing- Summer Holiday)
And so I cup her face in my hands and tip my head down, leaning in and capturing her lips ad the rain is surrounding us and poring down on us and our clothes are clinging to us, as is our hair, and maybe I should feel so cold with no jacket and with the cold rain and cold weather, but I feel warm.
And lips are crashing and I feel like I'm falling and I get that feeling in my stomach.
You know the feeling when your at an amusement park, and there's pure excitement, and your friend convinces you to go on one of those huge rides that drops you, and you shut your eyes so tightly, and then you fall, your stomach is in your throat, and your heart is beating so incredibly fast, and you're just falling, but you can't help but smile because it all feels so amazing.
That is how it felt when I kissed her with the rain falling all over us, and as her hands found my neck and the back of my soaked t-shirt, balling it up in tiny fists, clinging desperately.
And all I wanted to do was stand there in the rain and kiss her, which sounds cheesy, I know, but I wouldn't have changed it even if you had gotten on your knees and begged me to.
People have walked on the moon and scored the winning goal in a huge soccer game, and some have had the winning lottery numbers, and some have written books that were on bestseller lists, but none of them will ever get to kiss Emily Fitch in the rain on a cold Wednesday afternoon.
And once again, I know you will look at this and write it off as love sick teens that marvel at the simplicity of holding someone's hand, but I do not care, because I am currently holding her here in my arms, and she is so fucking amazing, that I cannot not say these things, because then they will just be unsaid things that haunt me with their nonexistence.
So I am telling you now, that I do not know if anything will ever be better than being with Emily Fitch, because I do not think better things than that can possibly exist.
We pull away, and her hair is clinging to her, and she's smiling and I love every moment of it, and all I can think about is all the other things that I want to do with her.
And she still looks so beautiful, makeup running down her face, clothes soaked and smelling of rainwater.
It's a week later when I'm sitting on her bed, and she's in the bathroom, that "it" happens, "it" being a bad event.
You see, when it comes down to it, looks are just looks, and they don't matter. They really don't.
I would still love Emily no matter how she looked.
But still, it's a hard thing, because we are taught to judge people on their looks, so when things start going south in that department, it feels as if things are falling apart, or falling out.
And that is what happened to Emily's hair.
It wasn't a lot, but it seemed like mountains of it to her.
I was just sitting on her bed, thumbing through a magazine, and then I hear this kinda choked noise, and out comes Emily, sniffling and crying and I'm not sure why, if I did something wrong, or if someone did something, or if she saw something on TV, but then I look at her hand.
In her hand she is clutching a few strands a red hair, and I realize something:
Those are supposed to be attached to her head.
And they are not attached to her head, so something is wrong.
And it takes me a while until it clicks and I remember that she is sick.
She's walking over to me, hair in her hand, clutched so very tightly and she buries her head in my arms, like I hold all the answers and solutions, and I hate myself because I don't have any.
She's crying into me, and I feel awful, because it hurts to see her upset.
And when she calms down a bit, I pull away, trying to get a good look at her.
"I'm gonna be fucking bald…"
"Emily," I try to interrupt.
"I'm gonna lose all of my hair," she cried out.
"Emily."
"This is such… shit!" And now she was crying again.
"Emily."
She looks up at me.
"Emily, I don't care about your hair. Everything about you is gorgeous, I promise. I love you, hair or no hair. Alright? I love you."
"Really?" She asks like a small child, voice timid.
"Yeah. I love you. Why else would I kiss you in the rain or watch the Princess Bride about fifty million times?"
And at this she laughs softly.
"It's only been about 30 million. Cut me some slack."
And she's still taking these shaky breaths, and I know that things are still not completely okay, and I know that only more shit is to come, and that things are gonna get worse, but right not that doesn't matter.
What matters it this:
She is Emily.
I am Naomi.
And we love we love each other a whole fucking lot.
Love, love, love.
Okay then.
I'm sorry that I always mention music. I really do love music, and spend a lot of time listening to it, but I really don't want it to feel like I'm forcing you to listen to it, or trying to aggressively push my style of music on you.
Sorry about that.
So I have a question. As many of you know, people who go through chemo have a tendency to lose their hair. So, I was wondering if you want Emily to lose all her hair, or to only lose a bit. I can easily write it either way.
Up to you guys.
Thanks again for everything.
Let me know what you think. Too cheesy? Not enough cheese?
Want some wine with that cheese? Sorry, I tried to make a joke and it was shit.
Anyways, next chapter will be posted on Monday night.