Wish Upon The Shooting Star #Wattys2015

Shooting

Part two! Oh SHOOT! Why is this chapter titled 'Shooting'?! Because I will only explain the purpose of doing so at the end of the story! Read on.....

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Seren's POV:

Several days have passed after receiving the worst news I've ever received in my life. I've always hoped to wake up from this horrendous nightmare, where the world would once again look brighter in my eyes.

"Seren!" The sudden surprise jolts me out of my daze, causing the favorite mug of mine containing hot chocolate to slip off my grip, shattering into pieces on the floor as the liquid seeps into the carpeted surface.

"Of my god. I'm sorry! Are you alright?" Her sincere, caring voice closes in on me, patting my back while her other hand waves the increasing attention of my colleagues away.

"Just a mug." She continues as if the mug is worthless. My eyes tear up upon the mess before me. But more importantly, they are settled on how the mug breaks; at the word 'life', separating it into two mercilessly, as if it's implying something.

Something is growing inside me, uncontrollably like the growth of algae. Rapid, fast and harmful. In my case, life-threatening. Harmful isn't even close. Perhaps, this is a retribution for my unforgivable sin, which is comparable to the sin of killing as I did kill someone emotionally, putting her into a long state of decline. I watched her being dragged into the asylum, changing counsellors and psychologists frequently and taking antidepressants. The guilt could never be lifted off my shoulders.

Getting off my chair, I lower my body into a kneel, beginning to pick the pieces of sharp glass up with a slightly trembling hand.

"Let me help you." She lowers her body into the same position as me too, however swiftly reaching for the pieces of the irreparable mug lying lifelessly on the floor. Its time's up.

"It's okay, Vera. I can do it myself." Forcefully pushing her hands away to avoid being too dependent, I accidentally cut myself in the process. Thick blood is gushing out profusely like a mini waterfall, dripping onto the wet carpet, creating awful-looking black patches. The tears I've been holding back, I helplessly let them all out. The inauspicious, ominous signs are all over, as if the Gods are trying to imply to me that treatment is useless, that I should just succumb to the cancer and die with zero value.

"Oh my god, are you okay?! Seren? You've been zoning out lately."

"Vera, please tell Mr Roswell that I'm sick. I'll take a half-day leave. Thanks a bunch. I owe you one." I instantly rise from my squat, snatching the bag roughly from my desk, messing up the hardly-tidied files, quickening my steps towards the elevator as the overwhelming emotions are driving me to the edge. I frantically press the button down, almost piercing my finger through that metal instrument before more tears could push their way through the dam that's holding them back painstakingly.

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The sunlight hits me hard directly, burning my skin as I walk aimlessly along the road while many other people are enjoying their day laughing. Lethargically dragging my feet, I come across a homeless middle-aged man sitting by the side of the road, hoping for a tint of sympathy from the thousands of people around. I spend several minutes observing him and the people ignoring him like he's a mere microscopic-sized dust in the corner of your house. It pains me to see how his bones are seen clearly sticking out of his fatless skin. But it pains me even more, knowing that I've only started paying attention to these kind of things when I'm counting my days down. I scavenge through my handbag, retrieving my wallet and pulling out a fifty dollars note. I approach him after wiping off my tears. Stopping before him, I squat down and leave the note while his eyes are lifted up, directed into mine. Tears soon are building up and sliding down his cheeks.