❝Who're you?❞
❝Fallon. I'm your candy striper for the next two months. Who are you?❞
❝I'm a lonely, incredibly depressed, cancer-inflicted, dying, nineteen year old boy.❞
❝Nice to meet you, a-lonely-incredibly-depressed-cancer-inflicted-dying-ninete...
and we'd laugh at the stars and we'd share everything
too young to notice, and too dumb to care
love was a story that couldn't compare.
- mayday parade ; terrible things
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luke.
"Ah!" I yelped at the prominent ache of my foot getting not-so-accidentally rammed straight into the wall in front of me, hunching over to grab at the wounded appendage. I peered over my shoulder to glare up at Fallon, despite the trillions of apologies she'd immediately started rapid-firing at me the minute I'd cried out.
"That was my foot, you dumbass."
"I apologized already, okay, this is my first time doing this." She muttered and stopped in front of my door to fold her arms, eyebrows raising challengingly after I rolled my eyes. "Wow, alright, would you like to push yourself on your own, monsieur?"
"I'd probably be better at it than you, so," I huffed and grabbed onto the two wheels at the side of the wheelchair I was seated in and skillfully rolled myself through the door, grinning impulsively at the whine I heard stringing out from behind me.
And speaking of this goddamn wheelchair - this hospital was really, seriously beginning to get on my nerves.
The thing about hospitals was that they had a really bad and infamous habit of making the ill feel even more ill than they actually were. You could easily be admitted in for breaking a bone or needing stitches and somehow, the doctors will find a way to convince you that you've only got a week to live.
Once, when we were sixteen, Michael threw up a shitton and the doctors were so freaked out that they locked him up in the ICU for four days - for throwing up.
They probably assumed that it had something to do with the tumor inside of him when in reality, I'm, to this day, ninety-nine point nine percent positive that it was because he had more than one of the breadsticks that were being served in the cafeteria for lunch that day (everyone in this building knows the healthy and safe limit is one).
The same goes for me in my own little predicament. No breadsticks were involved, though.
I'm dead for like ten minutes and now I'm required to sit in a wheelchair for a week until my surgery.
With how pale and bony and dead-looking I've gotten, I look like I'm one of the sixty-year-olds from Floor 2 who show up in the patient's lounge every Sunday night for a board game orgasm - Monopoly and Scrabble and Pictionary and every other game that ruins relationships.
