Lookism: What Am I Even Doing?

CHERRY (1)

CHERRY: THE LIFE OF A FIGHTER

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I've heard the stories of this. People always make it sound so much more dramatic than it is. Well, at least to me, it felt like nothing more than a regular doctor's visit. It was the same old room, the same old chair, and the same physician that I've been seeing for the past ten years.

There was nothing hard about sitting there and listening to my options. There were no caving walls or roaring waves. My vision was clear and my mind was too for the most part. For me the whole painful experience was like being given information on a small slip of paper.

Imagine a teacher giving you this small slip and telling you that this was true. A new fact that could not, in any way, be false or proven otherwise. It was now a part of your being the same way that you could differentiate between the colors green and blue. This paper in my hands was another undeniable fact that I could not walk away from.

And here I thought I'd be safe, protected.

A heavy figure slouched next to me, "What are we going to do Kira?"

I sighed, "You think I'm supposed to know?"

We both sat there in uncomfortable silence in the large hospital. The area was mostly empty since it was still early morning. We were sitting in the thin aisle of uncomfortable, cold plastic chairs they had in the middle of the floor a couple feet from the receptionist desk. Some of the nurses who probably knew about my condition were sending us glances.

I know they meant nothing by it so I ignored them for the most part. I guess they were trying to determine if they needed to hold me back if I decided to do anything irrational. Even though I was acting calm now there was no telling what I could decide to do in the next ten seconds.

Would I jump out the window? Start attacking poor Phil next to me? Or will I go to the nearest McDonalds drive through and binge everything on their menu? Who knows? All of them seem like okay options right now. It's not like any of it would matter anyway.

They should be more worried about Phil next to me. The poor big softie looked like he was about to have a panic attack. My manager might be a 6'4, over 250 pound man but he had the heart of a mama bear. Something he earned through the trial and error of raising four kids. And, in some way, I was his fifth despite being almost twenty-six and him in his early fifties.

He pulled his head into his chest and let out a ragged breath. I folded the papers in my hand then shoved them into my pocket to comfort the man as he cried. I patted him gently on the shoulder while looking quite absent mindedly at the floor in front of me.

There was nothing particularly spectacular about it. It was the same white tile you saw in almost every doctor's office. White with small specks of black brushed into it. I'm just not really sure what else I was supposed to be doing at the moment. My reaction thus far already seemed highly inappropriate in the way I was so readily handling it. It's as if I knew this day would come.

For most of my life I've spent it convincing myself that I was fine but it seems that I never really believed myself. You see, when I was younger, my mom got really sick from her head. When I would ask dad about it and why she would act so irrational sometimes, he would simply smile at me and say that she was struggling with a really bad sickness. He always told me not to worry though because they had some of the best doctors trying to help her.

They didn't help her. If anything, they made her worse. Day by day I would watch as they slowly took my mother's soul away. Every time I came back from school it was like a beautiful red rose was fading in front of me. Its petals transform from a brilliant red to a pale, sickly white. Its body turned frail, rangy, and ghost-like. The cheekbones of her beautiful face became so prominent that it was no longer beautiful but haunting.