Scribbles and Drabbles

The Last Icefire 2

TW: Cancer 

The cancerous growth had grown larger. 

The miracle treatment that the doctors claimed would work had failed. His growth had gotten worse since his last checkup. The doctor smiled at him sympathetically and offered another treatment to consider. It was all doctors seemed to do was suggest another treatment, another course of drugs, another grasp at a hope that died with his twin.

Lawrence was so tired. Hospitals, the endless tests, the sterile smell and the bad food all drained him into a husk of his former self. The endless sounds of beeps followed him home and left him unable to sleep as he listened to see if they would stop. Maybe they'd follow him to the grave, and his hell would be having them play over and over while disinfection singed his nose and needles poked his skin. He didn't want to scream anymore. 

"You could always appeal to the Mayor." 

It made him pause as he pulled his T-shirt over his head. Dr Jones's voice was genuine; he wasn't making a joke or jest. 

"The Mayor? What would he do? Floatsom can't heal this, nor could a light type." 

Espers came in many different types, some more elaborate than others. More people than not had a level of power, but most never unlocked it to notice. At a low level, people could lift a little more than average or be able to tell the weather without looking outside. Even the lowest-level type of Esper could result in cancer, which meant bad news for people who didn't realise they had any power.

"He has people researching it in their compound," Dr Jones said, picking up a pamphlet. "We're supposed to recommend anyone suffering goes there for specialised treatment. I can't promise they'll have the magic answer either, but it may be worth your while to brave it." Espers, who walked into the Mad Clown's domain, did not leave as easily.  

"I doubt it," Lawrence said, refusing the pamphlet. His stomach ached, and the spot above his left eye flared with pain. 

"If this is about the rumours."

"No, it's not," Lawrence put his scarf on. He took extra care with his immune system actively fighting to kill him. "I'm done with endless tests. They don't have a cure. If they did, he would have offered it in exchange for joining his, family."

Cult or gang was more apt, but that was probably rude. The Mad Clown liked using that word. Floatsom considered Icefire 'family' too, admittedly the black sheep, but family. Lawrence's scar itched. Lawrence and his brother also wore the title with great reluctance. Floatsom liked them too much. 

"Most likely. Dr Jones pressed the pamphlet to his chest. "Please consider it?" Lawrence stuffed it in his pocket reluctantly. "Good luck, Mr Lawrence."

Lawrence nodded before stepping into the elevator; a man in the back coughed with a loud hacking sound. Lawrence moved his scarf to cover his nose and mouth. His hands trembled, and his knees ached. It was not a good sign. Still, some of the aches were from the bad position Lawrence slept in. He'd fallen asleep on the sofa instead of his bed, which was a mistake. He tried to hold his breath while the elevator moved, trying not to touch anyone. The place was a den of disease and death, and no amount of white tile, paint, and sterilizer could hide it from him. 

Escaping from the tight space, a chill ran down his spine. He paused, stepping out of the way of a different patient. No familiar faces sat in the waiting room or stood ready to intrude on his day. He didn't believe that. 

His teeth chattered as he hit the cold air. He crossed the road and entered the park made and maintained for the hospital. The park was as he remembered it: green, despite the time of year, and filled with tall evergreen trees surrounding it to block the sounds of sirens as ambulances rushed people to the hospital. People ran along the paths in sportswear, nurses ate their lunch, and others helped older patients get fresh air.