Shattered

Steve + Soda = best friends

Steve's POV:
I dry heave into the toilet but this time I can't tell if it's from the alcohol I had yesterday or because of the stomach cancer. I'm going to have an operation in four days to remove the cancerous tumour in my stomach and my doctors said I shouldn't drink beforehand. I groan, I tried to give up alcohol and become a healthier person. Apparently, my tolerance has gone down quite a bit because of it. Now, I'm regretting drinking at all yesterday. "Get up early, suffer in silence by yourself in the hope that you won't wake anyone up with the sounds of your suffering. Yeah, I've done that more times in my life than I can count. Here." Soda says, reaching a hand out to me and stepping on my foot. He pulls me to my feet with ease using his leverage. "What has you hunched over the toilet at seven o'clock in the morning?" He asks. "Bad decisions involving too much alcohol." I say. Soda laugh, "Well then I guess you haven't changed a bit." I manage a smile, "I guess not. I've been trying to cut back lately. Apparently that shit is bad for your health. The way I see it, I'm dying anyway so why try and change my habits now? Why not do what you enjoy in your last week of life?" "Because you're not dying, stupid. You have cancer. There's a difference. You can get better." He says, slapping me on the back of the head. I wince, "Ow. Way to mind the hangover." "Sorry. Come with me, that is a problem I can fix." Soda says. I rub my eyes and follow Soda to the kitchen. "Sit." He commands. I lay my head on the counter and listen as Soda opens the fridge. I guess I fell asleep because the next thing I know, Soda is shaking me awake and there is a a plate with a piece of buttered toast and a pile of scrambled eggs sitting in front of me. "What's all this?" I ask with a yawn. "Food." He says and I laugh. Soda hasn't changed either. "I can't-" I start but Soda cuts me off with a look. "Yes you can." He says. "And here's some water." Soda adds, sliding a glass across the counter.
...
I put the fork down and wince. I'm going to regret eating all of that later. I have to admit, I was really hungry. "Are you okay?" Soda asks, sipping his chocolate milk. "Yeah, I'm stuffed though." I say, picking up my plate and my glass and putting them in the sink. I'm in the middle of washing the plate when I suddenly grow very nautious. I shift positions and try and ignore it but it doesn't go away. I normally don't have any symptoms but I'm finding it harder and harder for me to eat anything these days. "Steve, you don't have to do the dishes. I got it for today." Soda says. "I was the one who cooked it and made a mess." "No, I'm fine, I can wash the dishes. Hasn't the rule always been that if you cook the meal you don't have to clean up afterwards?" I ask. "You don't have to bulllshit me. We've been friends for years, I can tell when you're lying. Go take a nap. It's good to see you again though." Soda says, smiling gently but, in a way, he looks kind of sad. "Thanks. Really, I mean it." I say. I feel so useless but it's like my mind can only focus on one thing at a time and that one thing is giving my body what it wants. I shuffle down the hallway and lay back down in the bed I woke up in.