Hello! This is a short story I wrote for school ages ago. It is a bit heavier than what I write now, but I thought it would be a good first story.
Courage is keeping going in the face of the worst.
“You have lung cancer”
These horrible words replayed through my head for ten minutes after the doctor told me.
I, fifteen-year-old Louisa Marcell, have cancer.
In my lungs.
My body is drowning itself from the inside.
I don’t want to die.
It’s not that I particularly enjoy life.
I fear the unknown.
I fear unavoidable doom that comes to everyone eventually.
I get pulled out of this train of thoughts by the doctor who delivered the fateful news,
“It’s alright dear. We are able to cure it half of the times we are presented with this illness.”
I turn to stare into her eyes and speak in a voice that is void of any emotion,
“I’m literally dying and you tell me it’s alright. Sure, that’s slightly reassuring, but then you told me I had a 50/50 chance. That’s not very high.”
The doctor sighs and my mother places her hand on my shoulder.
She speaks in a tone that tells me she’s on the verge of tears.
“The doctor is just trying to help”
I try to be angry at her breaking down.
I try to think that she should be strong in the face of my doom, but I can’t do it. She has reason to be upset.
The same illness took my father’s life two years previous.
But I am a terrible person, so I scream at her.
“Mom, don’t. I’m dying. I’m dying there’s nothing you can do about it. Just like you couldn’t save dad you can’t save me.”
She looks at me and starts to sob.
I went too far.
But I don’t want to admit, so instead I run.
Like my life depends on it.
I run for so long my lungs burn and I collapse on the dirt in the hospital’s dingy courtyard.
I cry and cry.
Then I scream.
I scream so long my throat hurt.
My voice gets hoarse.
It starts to rain.
No one comes for me.
My mother doesn’t care.
She’s already given up on me.
It’s for the better though.
She’ll be hurt less when I die.
This is the second time I’ve had cancer.
She didn’t care last time either.
It was right after my dad died.
When my dad died my mother was a mess.
She was there physically, but mentally, you could tell she was long gone.
She didn’t care about me then and she doesn’t now.
I am alone.
I look to the sky and let the rain soak my hair.
I sit like this for a while and the rain stops.
It left as quickly and suddenly as it came.
I stand up and walk over to the small wooden swing that they keep for children who stay at the hospital.
No one ever plays on it.
Everyone here is sick or visiting someone who is sick.
I sit down on the swing.
I pump my legs back and forth.
Going higher and higher until I feel like I could reach the sky.
I almost died last time.
Cancer almost won.
I barely made it.
I can’t make it this time.
I’m not that strong.
I can’t be that strong.
But you have to be.
It’s the little voice in my head.
The one that reminds me of my father’s reassuring words.
I have to keep going.
I have to fight this.
I have to live.
Not for me, I don’t care, but for my father.
And my mother.
The shattered woman who has tried her best to care for me.
My father’s death stuck a knife in her heart.
My death would be twisting it.
I stand up and walk in into the door I ran out of.
I slowly walk into the room where my mother and the doctor sit.
My mother is crying.
I sit down on a chair beside her and tell her something.
“I can fight this.”