The Story of a Dying Girl

Hey, you again? Good to see you!

So here comes the part about the inevitable excuses: So, I just started working on Chapter 14, and I am rushing to work on that. I am sorry that I am not farther ahead, things have been a bit chaotic with school and then my social life decided to exist.

So I am very sorry about that, but I promise that Chapter 14 will be done soon. You guys can expect that in a couple of days.

Thank you once again for everything. I hope you enjoy this chapter, especially since I'm not sure how I feel about it yet.

But, anyways. Let's get ready to rumble!

Chapter 13:

So, what is the worst thing that could possibly happen when you are trying to… you know… with your girlfriend?

Besides her dad walking in and breaking your kneecaps with his bare hands.

Any guesses?

Well, it would probably be if she throws up.

I mean, I know I'm not that great looking, but I never thought I was that repulsive.

Sorry, that was a bad joke.

Now I feel like a dick.

Oh fuck.

Okay, let me explain.

It was a Friday after school, a few days after the first of her hair had fallen out, and we were sitting on her bed.

Emily's hair had not fallen out since that day, but I could tell she was nervous about it, despite my reassurances that I would love her even if she looked like a beaver, or if she wore a puka shell necklace.

But we were sitting on her bed, and we had been kissing, and my hand started to wander, because really, I shouldn't be held accountable for that thing, it really does have a mind of its own.

So my hand, not me of course, had wandered up and under her t-shirt, and it had started to graze her breast when my hand was pulled away, her lips vanished from mine, and her body was no longer on the bed.

My first thought was this:

Maybe that was not the right thing.

My second thought was this:

I've fucked up.

And then I remembered the time when I was slapped because the same thing had happened.

I was in the seventh grade, and Cook had of course continued his unwanted stories.

And of course ideas were being put into my head, ideas such as:

If you do not cop a feel, you are missing out and will never truly be happy and life will be shit and Gremlins will come and eat your face off.

Also, what the fuck is up with Gremlins?

Like, you can't feed them after midnight? It's always after midnight! Are you supposed to starve the fuckers? Because that would only make them more angry.

But anyways, ideas like that were being put into my head.

And I had still been dating Annie Wilders.

I think you may already be able to see where this is going, but let's continue anyways.

I was in a movie theater, because movie theaters were perfect for our dates. You didn't talk to one another, so no awkward small talk, and you could kiss sometimes if you sat in the back.

And we were sitting in the back of a movie theater, and making out, and my hand, the fucker that it is, had an idea:

How about I feel up Annie Wilders?

My hand did not ask her or me what we thought about this.

And so my hand moved up and up slowly, and finally it was resting just a bit below her breast.

And I thought things were going great.

So of course, of fucking course, I moved my hand up just a tiny bit, still not on her tit.

And what happened?

Well, she pulled away and slapped me hard across the face.

Very hard.

"What kind of girl do you think I am? Huh?" And with that she had taken my soda, poured it over my head, and walked out of the movie theater.

And yet we still continued to "date" for a bit longer.

But back to me now sitting on Emily's bed, looking at my hand like it was a devil, because really, I get in so much fucking trouble because of it and my horny mind.

But then I hear the unmistakable sound of someone puking, that awful pained sound breaking me out of thoughts.

"Emily?" I walk into the bathroom that she sprinted in to.

"Are you okay?" I ask, which was probably a very stupid thing to ask considering the fact that she is puking her guts up in to the toilet.

I wasn't entirely sure what to do in this situation.

I don't think I was supposed to offer words of encouragement.

You can do it! Puke! Puke! Puke! Good job! There goes your lunch!

That seemed rather fucked up.

After a minute the noises stopped, and the door clicked open.

She looked sick.

She looked ill.

She looked like she was dying.

And I never ever wanted to see that.

Those things a sick person looked like were right in front of me. Her skin was too pale, and her eyes were rimmed red, and she looked much more fragile than just a few moments ago, and she looked like how she was.

Sick.

And once again it hits me hard, that she is not okay, because people that are okay do not come out of the bathroom looking like that, and they do not go to the hospital for chemotherapy, and they do not lose strands of their hair, and they do not worry about any of these things.

And so it hits, it hits hard.

She is not okay.

Emily Fitch is not okay.

And if she is not okay, than neither am I.

But I would rather not think about any of that, because when I do I go into a bad place, a place where puppies are outlawed and smiling is illegal, and rainbows are mocked.

A place where those most precious to you are not safe.

And so I pull myself out of that place, because I can't bear to be in it, and I go over to Emily, who is barely able to stand at the moment.

And I pick her up. I pick her up and I carry her to her bed, and she's crying, and she's apologizing for throwing up, and for the smell, and for everything, and all I can think is that she shouldn't be apologizing because it was never her fault.

It's nobody's fault, and that's the worst part, because I have no one I can be angry at, no one I can punch or yell out or scream until my lungs burn and beg me for a rest, a rest that I will not give them.

And so I am angry at the world, and it's not easy to be angry at the world, but I am, because I am carrying Emily, and that wouldn't have ever bothered me, but it bothers me because I am carrying her because she cannot stand on her own at the moment.

Her parents are at some gym event, and it's funny because I didn't even know that there were gym events, and James is at his friend's, and I wonder if that's how he distracts himself from going into a bad place.

Katie is with Cook, and I still have trouble believing they're an item, that they are dating, that we go on double dates with them, that they kiss and hold hands and call each other by nick names, and all of that coupley shit.

I want to leave. I don't want to leave her, I could never want to leave her, never ever. But I want to leave this moment, because I cannot bear to watch her being sick.

But I stay because I am not my father.

I am not him, and so I am here tucking her in, and knowing he would have run, because things got hard, but I am staying, because I love her so much, it doesn't matter that it's hard.

"Are you alright?" I ask incredibly softly, and I'm not sure if she heard.

"I'm okay, I'm so sorry, though. It happens with the chemo, I guess," she whispers, and once again I am mad at the world for making her think that she needs to be the one apologizing.

"It's okay." I continue to tuck her in, making sure she's comfortable and has water.

And with that I grab her computer, and I grab The Princess Bride, and I get onto the bed, under the convers with her, and the movie begins to play, and I already know what happens, but that's not the point.

The point is she snuggles- and yes, I know that I do not like that word, but I will use it now- into me, and she smiles softly, and she looks less sick after a bit, and things seem better.

That's the point.

And by the time the movie ends she is asleep and I am wide awake, and all I can think about is how peaceful she looks, and how things are far from peaceful really.

I think about Emily, because that's all I really think about.

She's sleeping and her head is buried in my chest, and the rain has started again, and I'm just looking at her, because that's all I really look at.

And soon I find my eyes closing, and they fall and I try to peel them open, but after a bit I give up, and snuggle- yes I know- in closer.

I wake up a couple of hours later, and to my horror, I am woken up, and Mrs. Fitch is the one that wakes me up.

On the Brightside, it wasn't Mr. Fitch, because if it was, I have a feeling he'd be putting me back to sleep.

Have I mentioned that that man terrifies me?

You should have seen Cook when he got Mr. Fitch's warning.

He had come back to my house after a date with Katie, and the poor fucker had started to follow her upstairs, thinking he was gonna get some, only to here a cough.

He did not get some.

Instead he came back to mine, face pale like he had seen a ghost.

But Mrs. Fitch was here, standing in the doorway.

We hadn't done anything, our clothes were still very much on. But I guess finding me in bed with her daughter would take her logic out of the window.

I guess if I had a kid and I found someone in bed with them, I wouldn't be too pleased.

But Mrs. Fitch wasn't screaming, and she wasn't shocked, and she wasn't rushing to grab a gun.

Sidenote, I am almost positive the Fitch's do not own a gun. So let's hope, for my sake, that I'm right.

I mean, I'm already scared of Mr. Fitch enough as it is. I think the last thing we need to do is give him a deadly weapon.

Back to Mrs. Fitch.

She seemed pleased to be honest.

She was smiling, and looking at us lovingly, and for a second, I wasn't sure if my mind was functioning properly.

"Mrs. Fitch?" I asked in a kinda sleepy, kinda stupid way.

"Oh, sorry to wake you. Just go back to bed," she said softly, and I know she was trying to be nice, but all I could think is that was an incredibly stupid thing to ask of me.

Was I supposed to just ignore the fact that the Fitch's were home, and I was in bed with Emily?

What if Mr. Fitch wants to come up here, and talk about something like… oh I don't know, his gym, or why Emily's virginity is a precious and sacred thing, and how mad he would be if he ever found out I had taken it, and then he comes up here and finds me in bed with her?

I don't think we would be having a nice conversation.

I think the conversation would involve him punching in my face.

And then I guess Scotty Renold and I would be bashed face buddies.

So I decide to gently move Emily, unsuccessfully of course, as she wakes up in the process, and she looks so cute, that all I want to do is kiss her, and so I do (don't worry, she brushed her teeth and stuff after she threw up), gently back into consciousness, and it takes me a moment to realize that I should get up, because if I don't, I think thing would go very badly.

But I don't get up, because I'm a goner.

There goes my logic and reasoning, and my full independence, because I am a goner, and I guess I have been for a long time, but even now it still surprises me.

And so I don't get up, and I continue to kiss her instead, because the idea of leaving her lips actually makes me sad, and because I can't really think of anywhere else I want to be right now.

But I stop when I hear the door open again, because although I don't find my face extraordinarily, groundbreakingly, attractive, I still like it enough to not have it be rearranged.

I leave not long after, and the rain is still coming, but I walk home anyways, and the sky seems so much darker than it ever has before, and I think that's because Emily was sick earlier, but then I remind myself that she still is sick, and she will still be sick tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that too.

And so I hug my jacket a little tighter, because it feels a little colder, but I don't think it's because of the rain.

When I get home, I don't eat dinner because I don't feel like it, I'm not hungry.

I feel sick.

Maybe it's the rain or the cold, but I think it's because Emily looked so fragile that I thought that if I held her too tight, she would break, and if I didn't hold her tight enough she would vanish.

On Saturday, I'm sitting next to Cook, and we're sitting on the couch, and you might expect me to say that we are watching some crappy movie, but no, we are watching some crappy home movies.

"Are you ready?"

"Yeah."

It comes from the screen, and I watch Cook and I roll down the hill in one of those crappy little soapbox cars you make when you're little.

The ones that are cliché and that you pretend to make with your dad while he does all the work, and you race with all the other neighborhood kids for a prize.

But there was no race, and we had no dads to make us the cars.

We were eight, and the car was shit, the hill was huge, and I already knew how this would end, but watched with the utmost interest anyways, as the car rolled down faster and faster until it flipped on its side and we stumbled out, and my mum dropped the camera and came running after us.

And then came the next one.

Paddy was probably five, and he was rushing around, shooting Cook and I with a Nerf Gun I had given him, and Cook was holding the camera as we ran playfully, and Paddy was laughing and squealing, and my eyes crinkled as I smiled because he seems so happy.

And then the next.

I was probably six, and Cook and I were eating cookies, and I heard my mum's voice.

"Did you eat these cookies?"

And we gave these large smiles, and it made me happy, and then I heard my father's voice.

"Looks like we have quite the troublemakers here, huh?" And he came onto the scream, scruffy facial hair and all, and he was smiling, and we were continuing to eat cookies, and he looked happy, and all I wanted to do was throw something at him, because he was lying to me.

He wasn't happy, and he didn't care about me, and he didn't mean it when he said he loved me, because he left, he left, and he didn't do anything.

He didn't come back and he didn't try to make contact, and I bet he didn't even waste his time thinking about me.

And so I grabbed the remote and turned the TV off, because I couldn't bear to see his smile anymore, and I didn't want to see his eyes anymore, and I didn't want to see him pretend to care anymore when in just a few months he would be packing his stuff into his car in the early morning, and I would be waking up because I would hear the sound of the door, and I would walk outside, and he would get in.

And he didn't respond when I asked where he was going, or when he was coming back, and I asked him louder, but he wouldn't say anything, so I ran after the car as it pulled away, and he drove on, and the car got farther, and it was clear he wasn't stopping, and so I looked at the teddy bear in my arms, the one he had given me, and I threw it, I threw it in the direction of the car.

Because he could have it.

I didn't want it.

He didn't want me, and I didn't want his failed attempts as a father.

And I went back in and cried.

So Cook was looking at me, and he grabbed the remote, and he put another movie in, but this one was of another man, and he looked like Cook, and I realized that Cook was showing me that he knew.

He knew how fucked up it was.

I wonder if I would have been different if I had had my dad.

But I guess I won't ever know.

And now all I want to do is cry, and I know Cook wants to do the same, but we don't, because I don't want my father to be the cause of my pain, I don't want him to have that kind of power over me.

And I won't cry until I'm at Emily's house later that day, and we are sitting in her room, and her dad comes in.

"Hey Emsy, just wanted to say dinner will be ready in about half an hour." And with that he kisses her head, and I want my father to kiss my head.

He walks out of the room, and I want my dad.

I want him to come and I want him to hold me, and I want him to tell me that I'm not too old to want his teddy bear back, and I'm not weak if I sob, and that Emily will be fine, and that he thinks she's a keeper, and that he's proud of me.

I want him to tell me he loves me, that he loves my mum, and I want him to say he's sorry, and I know that won't make things okay, but I want him to say it anyways, because I forgot how it sounds when he says I love you.

I forgot how it's like for him to say he loves me.

And now my face puckers, and I'm crying, because there is so much I want.

I want my dad to come back because sometimes it feels like I'm still seven and watching his car drive away. I want Mrs. Incart to be happy because I can't bear to see her try to be happy anymore. And mum to always be smiling, because I never want to see her frown again. I want Cook and Paddy to have the life they deserve, because it's hard to watch them try to figure out where their mum has fucked off to.

I want Emily to be okay, to not have cancer and to not have to do chemotherapy or throw up or pull pieces of her hair out.

I don't need a big house or some fancy car. I'm not asking to win the lottery or to become some famous actress in some movie you saw in a theater once when nothing else good was playing.

I don't need anything extraordinary.

And so now I'm sobbing, because I want too much, even though there are people who wish for the world and get it, and I don't want the world, I want a girl.

"Naomi?" And with that, Emily takes me in her arms, and I lean my forehead against her collarbone, and I cry because I have not cried in a while, and now I'm feeling so much at once.

And really, I wasn't kidding.

I don't need to have millions of dollars or a summer home, and I don't need a large backyard and some horses I will never ride.

I just need her to be okay.

And she is not.

But I am here, and she is here, and I am crying and who knows? Maybe if I had a father I would have more people that cared about me and loved me, and maybe I would have gotten a better score on that test in that class, and maybe I wouldn't have fallen off my bike so many times when I was little because he would have been there to teach me.

And really things seem shit.

I feel like shit.

But I feel okay.

I feel okay now.

Because she is here.

"Are you okay?" She asks after a while, making those gentle cooing noises and patting my back.

And boy, what a question that was.

Was I okay?

Well, I've been having a pretty bad day to be honest. I found out I didn't do too well on a test I wanted to do well on, and I thought about my father and his absence, and I found a hole in a t-shirt I like, and I stubbed my toe this morning, and I scratched a CD I really liked, and things seem to be going pretty bad.

But I'm feeling okay now.

"Well, I was having a totally shit and awful day and things were going just shit, but now it's totally okay, because you're here, and things can never be bad when you're here."

I say it completely honestly, because it is completely honest.

"I love you, you know that?" She asks

And I nod, because I do.

I do know that.

I do not know a whole lot in the grand scheme of things, but I do know that I love Emily Fitch, and that she loves me.

And there we are, once again on her bed, and we're just resting, and I could stay like this my whole life.

And the days go by, and I find it to be Valentine's Day, and so I buy some chocolates and some flowers and we sit in the park, and we eat the chocolates, and in a way it might feel unromantic, because we are just sitting, eating these chocolates and passing a bottle of champagne (thank you fake ID) around.

But it feels romantic to me because the flowers look so beautiful when she holds them, and for a second I almost believe that the only reason flowers were ever made was so that Emily Fitch could hold them in her hand in a dark park one day.

And it feels romantic because we are sharing my earbuds, and song after song comes on and some of them make me think of her smile, and some of them her laugh, or the way she talks with her hands, but I guess you could have played any song and I would have found some way to think about her.

And she's wearing my jacket, and the stars are so bright, and her eyes reflect them, and there are stars in her eyes and she is in my arms, and that's all the really matters.

Oxford commas do not matter, and other grammar techniques can get fucked.

A nice apartment in Paris does not matter the least fucking bit, and neither does a pair of designer shoes.

I don't need some lavish life.

I need her in my arms, with my jacket around her, and us lying on the grass looking like all lovers do in those movies you watch because they looked good and you decided to watch something that might mean something to you.

And the stars fade in and out, just like our consciousness.

And the last thing I remember before going to sleep was saying, "I really fucking love you, you know?"

The sprinklers are fucking demon children who spit in your soda.

Sorry, I know, how abrupt, but this was my first thought the next day when we woke up to sprinklers soaking us and coating us as we tried to gather our stuff.

And so we get in my mum's car, and we're laughing at the state of us.

"Breakfast?"

"It's like you read my mind, Nomi."

And so we're off and to some diner, one that I couldn't tell you the name of even if I sat down at my desk and spent an hour racking my brain.

The booth is cracked and once black, and we shuffle in, bumping together and giggling, and looking like one of those couples, the ones you think of when you think back to high school, and being young and in love.

"So, what do you plan on having, Ms. Campbell?" Emily asks in a proper kinda British accent, and I think the Queen would have been proud, or actually… scratch that, I think the Queen would have been mildly offended.

But I'm not the Queen, so I find it adorable.

"I think I'll be having the pancakes with a side of bacon," I say in the same accent. "And for you Ms. Fitch? What tickles your fancy?"

"Tickles my fancy? Oh god Naoms."

"Too much?"

"Just a bit. But I'll be having the pancakes and bacon as well." And we go back to the mildly offensive accents.

"Good choice, love."

And we continue to giggle like kids who think they got away with a dirty joke.

A waitress comes up to us midlaugh.

"What can I get you guys?"

Now, here would be the part where normal people order in there normal voice, effectively killing the joke, but I'm gonna let you in on a little secret:

I am not a normal person, nor is Emily.

And no, we are not government super spies, or something like that. I just mean that we are not normal, and I'm 100 percent fine with that.

And so here is the part where someone like me orders in their bad, posh accent.

"I'll take a the pancakes, and a side of bacon would be ever so delightful."

And I get a weird look from the waitress, but it's worth it because Emily is laughing and giggling, and biting her lip and trying to stop her smile, but it comes out anyways.

"I'll have the same, please. I'm quite puckish, quite," she says, mirroring my accent, and now I'm laughing, because it seems so stupid, but there is something so incredibly lovely about ordering pancakes and bacon in a horrible attempt at an accent with Emily.

But I guess everything is so incredibly lovely with Emily.

Because Emily is so incredibly lovely.

And because I love her.

And so I take one of the napkins from the cold metal dispenser, and I dig into my pocket for a pen, and I take it out and scratched out some words, because I will keep this napkin in my pocket, and I will tell my grandkids, the ones I am guessing I will have, that in bleeding blue ink I once scratched out some words about their grandmother, and yes, Emily will be their grandmother, and she will be my wife, because really, how else could it possibly go?

How could she not be in my future? Because I promise you that one day I will marry her, and we will have beautiful children and grandchildren, and cancer will be a distant memory.

But I will tell them that in a crusty, kinda strange diner, I once wrote with in that bleeding blue ink in scratched, and thick writing:

I love you Emily Fitch.

Because I think that's really all that matters.

Huh.

Yep.

Alrighty then.

So that was that. I really hope that you guys liked it and stuff.

The next chapter will either be posted on Thursday or Sunday. I will not have my computer on the days in between.

Also, I kinda want to make a playlist for this, but I'm not entirely sure yet, but just to let you know, during the home movies part, I listened to a song called Fireflies Made Out of Dust by Happy Jawbone Family Band, and no, I promise that is not a country song or country band.

Not my favorite song or bad by a long shot, but I still like it.

It just kinda gives me an old home movie kinda feel. But who knows?

Listen to it if you want to, or don't. Like I said, I'm really not the type to try and "convert" you onto my music or anything like that.

Anyways, let me know what you thought.

See you soon.