Potion

The night was a picture of everlasting blackness. I never knew how I would escape. The curtain that shrouded my vision refused to move. I'd often thought about death. This was somewhat worse than how I imagined. I dreamt it to be peaceful. Not lancing pain or subtle dips to the abyss. No, I had never thought this to happen. Especially to me.

The waiting room was quiet. The silence was so disturbing I couldn't help but click my heels together. Everything about the hospital irritated me. The white walls. The white floors. The depressed people. The solemn doctors. And the waiting! I watched the clock on the wall, which never seemed to move. Finally, my doctor came out of the double doors in his crisp white coat. His face was pulled tight across his jaw, which gave him a frail looking stature. "Willow?" He asked. I inclined my head, waiting. He paused, looking to the ground as if that would help him deliver the news. "I'm sorry, you have a brain tumor that we can't operate on. You have some time left..." He trailed off. I took in the facts, absorbing them with care. I wasn't afraid. I wasn't scared. If I had time left, then I was greatful. "How long?"

The doctor hesitated. "Two months."