Wish Upon The Shooting Star #Wattys2015

Prologue

This prologue is considered as Chapter 1, you can say. If there's any similarities between this story and your story, or any other story, it's purely coincidental. I thought of this idea myself based on my inspiration; shooting stars.

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"Legend has it that wishing upon a shooting star makes the wish come true. It is believed to have originated in Europe, when Greek astronomer Ptolemy, around AD 127-151, wrote that the Gods occasionally, out of curiosity, even boredom, peer down at the earth from between the spheres, and stars sometimes slip out of this gap, becoming visible as shooting or falling stars. Since the Gods are already looking at us at such a time, they tend to be more receptive to any wishes we make!"

"..." I stare down at the acceptably thick book titled Legend of The Shooting Stars with a heart full of hope and a mind full of thoughts.

My hand slowly stretches out to lift a thick portion of the book and flips it close gently, stacking it on the untidy pile of books hibernating quietly on my left. Reaching out towards another undoubtably thick book, as thick as an exclusive dictionary, I read the title; Cancer.

Going through the first few pages, I stop at the content page and my index finger carefully and smoothly traces down the list of chapters. I halt my movement upon encountering the chapter that I've been dying to search for. Perhaps literally dying.

Though I'm sure that my concentration is fully focused on the seemingly endless stack of books, the sudden vibration in my pocket snaps me out of my thoughts. Digging roughly into my jeans' pockets like the struggles of a fish, I pull that precious gadget out of my side-pocket, gazing at the more-than-familiar caller id.

"Yes, mom." I whisper as softly as possible, trying not to disturb anyone in this graveyard-silent library. At the same time, I clasp my phone tightly between my shoulder and side-cheek while my hands reach for the messily scattered books on the brown wooden table that I was intently reading.

"Seren?! Are you done? How was the results?" The shrieking voice of the woman that's given birth to me screams through the phone, making my eardrum rings for a split second. I saw her early this morning, we even had a casual conversation, but why do I miss her so much that it's overwhelming right now?

-3 hours ago-

The atmosphere in the waiting room for consultation is almost as dead as a cemetery. No one talks energetically which simply enhances the gloominess. Some people's faces even have hopelessness written all over them, others have despair while a very small portion holds hope. Here I am, furrowing the meticulously-drawn eyebrows of mine, implying the annoyance I've been feeling. The hospital contacted me this morning to return again after the last time I had a dreaded consultation about two weeks ago. It was about the occasional upper abdominal and back pain. I've also been losing weight together with my appetite even until today. Although I insisted that they are simply gastric pain due to my irregular and lesser meals, my overly-paranoid Mom had successfully persuaded, scratch that, forced me to see a doctor.

That explains the reason I'm here after two weeks. I'm ready to receive some mysterious but surely effective sort of gastric pain prescriptions together with some appetite-boosting pills and escape from this melancholic place.

At the corner is a mother and her toddler son. She can't stop wiping the nosebleed off his nostrils using almost a packet of tissue and at the same time, her own tears using her worn-out sleeves. A nurse hurriedly trots towards them, handing a white sheet of something that looks like a form to her.

Directly in front of me is a middle-aged woman with her father and daughter. On his left arm, a sterile water bag hanged on a pole is connected.

"Miss Moreno. Miss Seren Moreno." Reflexively grabbing my bag which I've comfortably placed on my lap, I push back the white sofa as I stand up, can't wait to get this over with.