Rosella

I stared at the pile of books that I threw away from the window. I settled down on a black velvet-clothed couch. I took a deep breath, trying to calm down my anger. I can’t do this. I’m not capable of doing this.

I knew that I hated my life and it was tough but I couldn’t complain because that was all I had back then—some breaths. I was familiar with the thought that sooner or later, there will be my dead body and a coffin—that was all.

I walked barefooted on my vomit and called my mom,

“Mom!”

She rushed inside the living room, almost scared to death. She tried to calm me down as soon as she noticed the vomit,

“It’s ok, Rose. Everything’s fine. You’re fine. Don’t worry.”

 I tried my best to let the anger, frustration and pain go but it didn’t work. I was more hyper—I shouted hysterically,

“Mom! Mom! My head! “

And as always, the pain slowly slipped away the minute my mother gave me an injection.

My mom, well, she had always been proud of me. She didn’t care about my short temper, vomiting, headaches and all the sickness that had been added up with my soul due my illness. She knew that I was a brave teenager. She believed that I was special—a part of something big. Mostly on special occasions, we both would sit together, watching the sky and we talked about how I had always been her favorite child. How she was surprised that I took so brave decisions. How she wondered, if we had gotten a better time to spend with each other—the one with me being healthy. And in the end, she’d always hold my hand and tell me,

 “I know that one day I’ll be really proud of you—even more than I am right now.” But I knew that was only the encouragements to make me feel better and nothing more.      

I wheeled out to the wooden patio of our seaside cottage. Mom sometimes allowed me to take a ride on my wheelchair on my own but no more farther than the patio. I shifted my body to a comfortable chair and stared at the stars that smiled at me. The sea, the wind, it always did the magic—my pains, nervousness, it all went away for a while. I wanted people to know how it feels to know that you’re dying. How slowly the cancer gets you and without even knowing how bad the condition will go, it lets you live some more days—and you just die every day, deeper and deeper, to unknown intensity. It almost feels as if it throws you off the roof and if somehow you’re still alive, it repeats the same action until you both are tired of playing the game.        

Sharp sun-rays peeked through the small gaps in the curtains. I woke up and quietly wheeled outside, leaving my mother to sleep behind. Relaxing in my dorm chair, I felt the soothingly different air that made my breathing better.

I watched as two little children, a boy and a girl came running towards me. Out of breath, the boy asked gazing the ball near my chair,

“If you’re not playing with this ball, can we have it? We’ve lost ours while playing near the sea. Our parents thought maybe you won’t mind lending it for some minutes.”

I smiled at his innocence and answered,

“Well—let me think? What if I say no?” I didn't know why i was teasing him.

The little boy—disappointedly looked at me. I thought he was going to cry, so I quickly said,

“I’m just kidding. You can take it. I don’t play with it anymore.”

I handed him the ball and added,

“It’s yours now.”

He looked astonished,