Short Story Collection

Stories

For once, not inspired by music. I'm actually surprised at myself.

"Tell me a story," one boy whispers in the darkness of his bedroom.

"What are you, five?" the other one whispers back.

"No." A brief pause. "You just tell the best stories."

The boy knows his friend will respond to that: he likes being told his stories are good. And so, after another pause, the second boy says: "Alright. Once upon a time..."

And he weaves a story about the friendship between a prince and his guard; a tale of epic battles involving dragons –as epic as a six-year-old can describe, anyway.

///

"I wish I was like you," the storyteller says to his friend.

The other boy looks up with wide, startled eyes. "Why would you want that?"

Now ten and growing into themselves, the differences between them have become obvious, but the second boy always pretends they're not there.

"Because you're fast and strong," the storyteller declares simply. "And I'm... Me."

"You're you," the other boy agrees. "You're only the best storyteller to have ever lived. I wish my imagination was more like yours. But that's why we're friends."

The storyteller glances up, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. "What?"

Cockily, the other boy raised his chin. "Because your imagination is big enough for the both of us. And I'm strong enough to punch anyone who says otherwise."

///

"This really fucking hurts," the athlete says from his space on the hospital bed.

Unimpressed, the storyteller raised an eyebrow. "I thought you were high as kite."

"My shoulder is out of its socket and my arm might be broken," the athlete says through gritted teeth. "Of course it fucking hurts."

The storyteller knows his friend's pain is bad: otherwise, he wouldn't be mentioning it. His friend is the toughest person he knows. But the storyteller's heart is still pounding from when he'd seen the defender tackle his friend to the ground. Football is a rough sport, he's always known that, but he hadn't expected to ever have to see just how dangerous it could get. He also hadn't expect to feel this distraught over his friend's injury, but there's still a pit in his stomach. He hides his fear the only way he knows: with sharp words and clever stories.

"Once upon a time..."

///

Thirty minutes later and their lives fall apart when a doctor with a grim look in his eyes enters the room. He looks at the athlete and asks if his friend could leave, but the athlete refuses to let him, and so the doctor is forced to tell them both. The athlete's arm isn't broken, which is good. It's what comes after the good news that sends them both reeling. The story-teller can't remember the exact wording: all he heard was bone cancer and stage four, and everything after is a blur. The athlete sits silently, with a stony expression on his face, his shoulder no longer dislocated and in a sling. Without thinking, the storyteller reaches over to take his friend's hand. Neither of them acknowledges the gesture, and that's exactly how they both want it to be. In a quiet voice, the storyteller continues his story.

///

Eight months later, both of them having just barely turned eighteen, finds them in a hospital again. The storyteller's heart aches when he looks at his friend. The athlete is curled on his side under the flimsy hospital blanket, his breath rattling in his lungs. So rather than looking at him, the storyteller looks at their joined hands. That hurts, too: though the athlete's hand is bigger, its papery skin makes it look and feel far more fragile.

"Are you scared?" the storyteller asks softly, not looking at his friend's face.

"Terrified," the athlete wheezes.

"Don't be," the storyteller says, his voice dropping even lower until it's nothing but a whisper. "You shouldn't be afraid."

He's a hypocrite: he's terrified too, about losing him. But it's all he can do to make this bearable for his friend. They both know it can happy at any moment now: world's worst waiting game. The storyteller glances up at his friend. He hardly looks like himself anymore: paper-thin, every bone protruding, and with the shadows beneath his eyes so dark that they look like bruises. The cannula that helps the air in his struggling lungs crossing his sunken cheeks. His hair has only just begun to grow back after stopping treatment. They had fought over the athlete's decision to stop treatment, but the majority of their argument had come from fear on both ends. Fear of death, fear of losing each other. They hadn't spoken for three days, and then the storyteller had realized that his friend had had enough. He had struggled and fought like a lion for months, but he was tired. Completely burned out. He just wanted to spent his last few weeks in a somewhat decent state. So the storyteller had gone to him and apologized, and they both had a little breakdown they vowed to never speak about.

"Why shouldn't I?" the athlete asks.

Despite his fear, there is a bit of a spark back in his eyes, like he's excited about what his friend is going to tell him. That same excitement when his friend was about to tell a story.

So the storytellers swallows back his tears and replies: "Because death is peaceful, and no one deserves peace more than you."

He talks and talks about everything and nothing until he notices the athlete has drifted into sleep. He's still breathing, but he's asleep. The storyteller finally allows himself to cry.

///

Two days later, and the athlete's condition has significantly declined overnight. The storyteller knows, deep in the hollow pit in his stomach, that he won't see the sun rise again tomorrow. He refuses to acknowledge it: his heart is far less willing to give up on his friend, and so is his mind. Both reason that the athlete is the strongest person he knows. That it won't be over by morning, that he'll live to see another day.

But the truth is that the athlete doesn't want to. Physically, his body could probably keep itself going for another few long, torturous days full of pain. But his mind has given up, and the storyteller doesn't blame him. A selfish part doesn't want him to let go, but the biggest part of him wishes for his friend to pass quietly in the night so that his suffering will be over.

The athlete looks up at him through half-lidded eyes. He's pumped full of pain medicine, but those barely even take the edge of anymore. His voice is nothing more than a weary rasp when he asks: "Will you hold me?"

The storyteller doesn't respond. Instead, he climbs onto the bed and settles next to friend. He wraps an arm around his shoulders –winces at the sharpness of his bones- and pulls the athlete against his side. The semi-upright position seems to ease the athlete's breathing a little bit, and the storyteller is glad he can do at least this for him. His friend settles his head onto the storyteller's shoulder and closes his eyes.

Any moment now.

In a voice that sounds too tired for this world, the athlete says: "Tell me a story."

Not inspired by music, for once. I'm actually surprised at myself 😂 Also, in case you were wondering: yes, I made myself cry while writing this.