Time To Go

Seven: Kennedy

B-Cell Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia (also known as 'Chronic Lymphoid Leukemia' or 'CLL') is a type of Leukemia, or Cancer of the white blood cells...

Survival varies from five years to more than twenty-five years.

I slam the book shut in my hands and drop my head into my sweating palms. I am breathing shakily for some reason. My eyes look down at the book on the oak table in front of me. I sit back, running my fingers through my hair and holding onto the top of my head exasperatedly.

"I'm in over my head..." I whisper distantly as my eyes fall onto the thickness of the book.

So many pages... so many unnecessary pages when all that is needed is one word;

"Death," I whisper and shut my eyes, lolling my head back so that the familiar feeling of the blood rushing to my head overtakes my thoughts briefly.

As a kid, I always loved hanging upside down. I used to do it off my bed when everything got too much downstairs. When my Father would hit my Mother... when my Mother would throw plates at my Father... when my brother would run away. But as I tilt my head back off the library chair, none of these thoughts are running through my head. None of them.

"Are you alright, love?" A timid voice calls and I lift my head up jerkily to meet the soft voice. I'm greeted by an elderly woman, her body too heavy for her as she leans forward, her smile comforting as she holds onto the chair opposite me for support.

I nod slowly and she lets out a little giggle. I furrow my brow at her in intrigue as she shakes her head in contrast to mine. I more than welcome her to sit down, yet I do nothing to insinuate that I don't mind her joining me at the library table. I just sit there... an empty shell of a human being.

The city library is huge. A large hall, decorated beautifully with wooden shelves reaching near the ceiling. One large aisle, dotted occasionally with large deep red oak tables with matching benches making the place historical... perfect.

My refuge...

It wasn't often that I came here. Because it is so far from my home, but on days like this where simply nothing else will do... days like this, the journey seems worthwhile. Rewarding, in fact.

"Love, I have been the librarian here for twenty years. I have seen face after face, checked out book after book and have seen problem after problem." Her voice wasn't patronizing or full of doubt in me. She didn't seem judgmental or as though she was saying it for the sake of getting me out of this place on time.

I looked at her, smiling innocently back at me, her jumper slightly moth-eaten at the sleeves as her frail hands poke outwards, veins and blemishes washing over them in a magnificent way. She was a painting of her own history. As she looked at me, I couldn't help but feel pity towards her. But as I swallowed harshly, the pity had nothing to do with her. The way she spoke, the way she looked... a way that John never will...

"Is it possible..." I begin, clearing my throat and watching as a slight eyebrow arches on her wrinkled face. "I mean, have you ever..." I lean forward, linking my hands together and looking at her sincerely. "Is it possible to be infatuated by someone who is going to die?" I ask honestly, watching as her face somewhat blanches.