Reticent (h.s fanfic, punk Harry)

Chapter 47

Harry's POV

"Mr. Styles, let's be honest between the two of us. How many cigarettes do you usually smoke in one day?"

"A pack," I mumbled. "Sometimes two if i'm feeling quite stressed," I decided to add on, trying to control my fingers from tapping on my thigh constantly.

In the small doctor's office, I sat on the lumpy chair, looking around the tight space at the various certificates. A bobble head sat on the desk between us, Elton John's head shaking. Mum loved Elton John; she'd leave his music on while she attended her little garden, beside her a young Harry clutching her pants, asking her about all the plants.

"A pack of cigarettes, how much alcohol? Is it strictly occasional? Have you been partying a lot?" 

"I don't drink; n-not binge, but I'll have a beer once in a while." 

He scribbled on. "Harry," he sighed. I knew this couldn't be good. As he spoke, I couldn't find any way to move my mouth. I knew I should not have been surprise-and I wasn't but the emotion that manifested in me, brought a tingling ache to my chest.

I couldn't believe I was dying, and to think I was so prepared for this; this end of the game. 

The doctor looked at the file then back at me, grim face sat with a lurking eye, stealing glances at my face, perhaps waiting for the pleading, 'no, it can't be'. I felt too numb to feel much of any emotion. Surprised? no, Devastated? I still did not know. So I sat quietly in the lumpy chair, waiting for the doctor to continue about the results. I'm sure he had something planned; something along the lines of 'I'm very sorry to tell you that we have not detected this problem in time' I knew it was too late; I was perhaps waiting for it to be too late. 

The bruises, the fatigue, the puking...blood. 

I knew I was dying, I know Louis would be quite crushed. Jay, completely mortified. 

And Ophelia, I hummed; Pity I was dying; I was happy for once in my miserable life. 

"How long?" I put the staring doctor out of his misery. 

A sigh parted through his thin lips, another look at the paper. "We can't guarantee a specific time range in these situations, Mr. Styles." The papers were tucked in between the files again. "I've had patients with stage four lung cancer have days, months." He rubbed his thumb and finger together; a way to control his confusing search of words, as I'd noticed during the appointment. "And of course I've had patients who miraculously cure themselves; but unfortunately I have to say that in this case I highly bought a speedy cure, any symptom control too. With the habits you've been manifesting, the cigarettes, the diet. Even changing now, unfortunately could not give you enough time to have the cancer cells lessen the-"

"I got it," my voice came out mumbled. Mum took seven years; and that with chemotherapy. "How much time with chemo?" I found myself asking. Why was I desperate for time? 

A heavy exhale bounded over the walls; so slim then? "I'm sorry, Mr. Styles. We can set you for chemo, but even then, I can't promise. Would you like to take a chance?" 

My eyes casted down to my nimble fingers. All I craved right now was a cigarette. A cigarette and Ophelia. I looked up at him and witnessed the stark hopelessness in his eyes. There was no way out of this.

 "Can we...r-re-schedule?" I croaked. My throat was full, my eyes blurry. My hands curled to a fist; there was nothing to cry about; I had done this to myself. 

"Of course; would you like me to have someone contact you about any recommendations for a therapist session? Or here, take these cards and you can contact them yourself at your own time." Without waiting for my answer, he pulled out two cards. I was silently thankful he didn't make me succumb to speech while my throat felt closed.