Dear Stranger,
I got this box of chocolates delivered to my room with a note that said, "Didn't your mother tell you not to trust strangers?"
She did. Still does. Every single day. She thinks I can't take care of myself, you see. But I know I can. During my numerous visits here in the past (I've gotten hurt a lot of times…don't judge me; I'm clumsy), I've learned lots and lots of stuff. How to perform CPR, self-defense from a nine year old girl who has leukemia, a little aerospace stuff from a war veteran, how to give yourself a fantastic manicure from a nurse in ICU…
Anyway, the white parasites who like to suck all the blood out of me diagnosed my tumor. And well…it's not good. They gave it some long fancy name that I will never be able to pronounce let alone write it. All I heard was 'incurable' and 'only a year or two to live at most'. The thing is, there's apparently something strange about it so they want to keep me locked up here to scan it and to take tests every day.
I wanted to die right then. There was so much I wanted to do with my life. I had plans with my friends to watch that new chick-flick this weekend! And to go shopping with my mom and be dragged along with my dad to go fishing and be annoyed by my brother and stalked by this nerd at school who's obsessed with me and to try to flirt with this really cute guy who only thinks of me as his sister.
[The paper here is heavily smudged and water stained, with multiple smears of chocolate. The entire next paragraph has been completely scratched out.]
From the Desk of a Dying Fat Girl Feasting on Chocolates,
Serena