𝑯𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝒈𝒊𝒇𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒔𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒔.
Elizabeth Reid learned, at seventeen, that she was going to die. Diagnosed with terminal cancer, she's faced with a question that no one should have to answer.
How do you leave a mark on a wo...
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The car ride to the hospital was tense, filled with an uncomfortable silence that seemed to stretch on forever. Mum kept fiddling with the radio, never settling on a station for more than a few minutes. Dad's knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched tight. In the backseat, Meri and I exchanged glances, neither of us quite sure what to say.
It wasn't often that we visited the hospital as a family these days. Usually, it was just me and one of my parents for my treatments. But today was different. Today, we were going to see Jackson.
Jackson, my cousin, who was waiting for a liver transplant. Jackson, who'd always been the life of the party at family gatherings, now confined to a hospital bed. Jackson, who was only nineteen and facing a battle I understood all too well.
As we pulled into the hospital car park, I felt a familiar knot form in my stomach. It wasn't just the usual anxiety I felt coming here for my own treatments. This time, it was mixed with worry for Jackson and a strange sense of guilt. Here I was, still fighting, still hanging on, while Jackson...
I shook my head, trying to dispel the thought. This wasn't a competition. We were all just doing our best to survive.
We made our way through the familiar corridors, the smell of disinfectant making my nose wrinkle. As we approached Jackson's room, I saw Aunt Sarah and Uncle Tom huddled together outside, speaking in hushed tones with a doctor.
Mum hurried over to them, wrapping Aunt Sarah in a tight hug. Dad hung back a bit, looking uncomfortable, as he always did in hospitals. Meri stuck close to my side, her hand finding mine and squeezing tight.
"How is he?" I heard Mum ask softly.
Aunt Sarah's face crumpled a bit. "Not great," she admitted. "The doctors say... they say if he doesn't get a transplant soon..."
She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. But we all knew what she meant. The unspoken words hung heavy in the air.
Uncle Tom cleared his throat. "But he's hanging in there," he said, his voice gruff with emotion. "Our boy's a fighter."
We all nodded, because what else could we do?
After a few more minutes of quiet conversation, we were allowed to go in and see Jackson. The room was dim, the blinds drawn against the harsh afternoon sun. The steady beep of monitors filled the air, a constant reminder of where we were and why.
Jackson was propped up in bed, looking pale and drawn. But when he saw us, a shadow of his old grin flickered across his face.
"Well, if it isn't the whole Reid clan," he said, his voice weak but still carrying that familiar hint of mischief. "Come to liven up my five-star accommodation?"
I felt a lump form in my throat. Even now, even here, he was trying to make us laugh.
We gathered around his bed, pulling up chairs and perching on the edges. For a while, we just talked. About nothing important - the weather, the latest family gossip, the ridiculous daytime TV Jackson had been subjected to. It was almost normal, if you could ignore the hospital setting and the tubes snaking out from under Jackson's blanket.
