Second Chances (Short Story)

Prologue Chapter: Henry Harp

People often asked me if I ever had the chance to do things again, would I?

Staring at my heart monitor, I often pondered upon this question. This year, I would be turning 25, on the 18th of April to be exact. It's not a large age, but due to an autoimmune disease, I, Henry Harp, would not be able to enjoy the fruits of adulthood. Never being able to doesn't bother me; it's the fact that I'm leaving behind people I've hurt, which sucks a lot.

I have not lived a "good life", but who is to decide what is good and what is bad? Cheating, lying, gambling, backbiting—I've done it all. And I regret it all. It's not until death approaches that you start to realize that such things lose all meaning.

Sighing, I shift my eyes away from the heart monitor and view the outside. It's sunny today; across from the hospital I'm residing in, children are playing. It makes me happy seeing others happy. It might sound odd coming from a bad guy, but I don't feel like I owe the world an explanation, however hypocritical it might sound.

Knock knock.

Twisting my head sideways, my pale blue eyes perceive a woman in colorful blue and red clothing. It's a dress I once mentioned I liked. On her head lay a modest hat with soft but colorful feathers, lighting up her golden hair, which seems to be hiding ever so slightly. They cascade down to her shoulders, her same pale blue eyes as mine, and a slight smile hanging on her lips.

This is my mother, Samantha Harp, or known by her friends as Sammy.

My mother looks at me, her eyes kind. No matter the actions I have inflicted upon her and others, she always looks at me with those eyes, which seem to say, "No matter what, I'll always be there for you." Yet, I could never look at them straight. Lowering my head, I look towards the covers of my bed, a pure white color. My hospital room is simple; at the corner, a TV hanging, next to it an oak brown desk, by my side a white drawer to place things on, and at the other side of my bed, a red closet to store all of my clothes.

She walks in, her face, even though smiling, has this bitter feel to it, as if she was suffering from the inside but yet refused to show it. Taking the chair from the desk side, she placed it across from my bed.

I slightly squint my eyes from the mixed emotions I am feeling; it's a mixture of sadness, helplessness, shame, and disgust at myself for having allowed this wonderful woman to have been tormented by myself. My mother from a young age was abandoned by her father; her mother was an alcoholic. My dad died in the line of duty; he was a firefighter who died while saving the life of a little girl. To realize that I, his son, turned into a pathetic loser is a sore spot within me.

Consumed within regret, I somehow zone out for a moment. Maybe it's because I am approaching death that the feelings I am experiencing are as heavy as they are. Suddenly, I feel something soft, yet covered with blisters, covering my own right hand, causing me to come back to reality and look up to the one holding them.

Our eyes look into each other for a moment, and all of my worries fade. Even if I find it hard to look at them, once I do, it feels like some kind of peace washes over me, something I can't necessarily explain with words. It is peace.

Opening my mouth, I utter my greetings, to which my mother chuckles. She kindly teases me, asking me what I was thinking of as I appeared to be deep in thought. I mutter that it wasn't that important and cover her hand with my left hand. Looking at my hand, I notice that it looks weak and pale.

A shame for such a youth as myself, I think to myself, yet I bring out a bright smile to reassure my mom. Somehow lately, I've been feeling my death approaching. I do not think I will be surviving till my birthday, which is next week. But I don't want to let my mom know that; I think she might have noticed it as well as my outward mood has been changing these last couple of months.

My mother starts talking about minor things she experienced in life, such as shopping, work, and taking care of my little brother, who is the light of my life. His name is Alfred; he will be turning 8 this year. He is a cheeky guy, but my cheeky guy.

I nod and laugh along sometimes coughing, which causes the mood to fall, but then we just continue on. I admonish my little brother, telling her that I would show the little guy the next time I see him. But secretly we both know such a time might not come again, at least not for me.

At some point, the sun started setting, and from the other side, a knock resounded; the nurse taking care of me came to announce that visiting times were ending. Knowing myself, I might regret it if I don't ask my mom for a hug now that death feels so close.

So before she could walk fully to the door, I called her back and asked for a hug. She turned around, a big soft smile, telling me "of course, how could that even be a question?"

Hugging my mom and saying my goodbye, I kiss her on her forehead. Seeing her figure leaving, I know deep within me that death is coming for me.

Once the door closes, my mother starts silently crying. I know she would. It's something she does often; this time it feels more bitter than other times, and I can't explain why, I just know it.

I, too, start silently crying. The nurse stands next to me, observing me. Her face a mixture of pity and sadness. After some time, she starts helping to clean my body with some wet towels soaked in warm water. I ask her for a mirror; it's lately become a habit of mine to look at myself in the mirror. In it, I see an emaciated young man, brown-blond soft hair, pale blue eyes, and sharp features.

I sigh internally. If only I had a second chance, I think to myself, a second chance to redeem myself. Maybe just maybe, I might have done more; I might have been able to become more. But such chances only exist in fairy tales.

The nurse finished her treatment, after having washed and collected some blood samples, she left, wishing me a good night, telling me she would see me tomorrow. Yet somehow, I felt that would not be the case this time, a gut feeling. Yet, I wished her a good night as well, telling her I would see her tomorrow.

Adjusting my neck, I closed my eyes; the night enveloped me, while the darkness sang its last song.