It's been two days. Forty-eight hours since I've left my bedroom. Mom's been bringing me meals, but I don't eat them. I seldom drink what she brings up because I'll die if I don't. Even though I'll die anyway. She came in yesterday and told me that I have an appointment with Hicks in a few days. Her eyes were red and her hair was a mess. She was wearing the same clothes she had on the day I was diagnosed. When I saw her, I felt guilty in a way. I feel bad for doing this to her.
The headaches have gotten worse, more abrupt. I feel fine one second, and then, in an instant, the pounding in my skull begins to invade my thoughts. The bruises aren't there anymore, though. They went away yesterday.
I only have fifty-something days left. I'm not even sad or scared anymore. I've accepted the inevitability of my discontinued existence. I'm sad, though, that I'll never have a bestselling novel. I'll never be able to walk into a Barnes and Noble and see hundreds of copies of my book lining an entire aisle. I'll never get emails from New York Times book critics telling me how great my work is. I almost begin to cry, but a thought comes to my head: NO. I'm going to write a book. I'm going to. I have fifty-something days left. That's more than enough time, if I get to work today.
The urge to write floods my body, but I realize that I don't have a notebook.
That's not stopping me, though. I change my clothes, and my head begins to hurt slightly. I don't care. I refuse to let this demon in my blood possess me, control me. If I only have fifty-something days left, I'm going to live it on my own terms. I pull my slightly greasy hair into a ponytail, throw on an American Eagle hoodie, and grab my purse. I open the door to my room, and realize how happy I am to leave it. Practically sprinting down the stairs, I nearly bump into my mom when I turn the corner into the kitchen. "I'm going out for a couple hours, mom." I pull her into a tight embrace. We're about the same height, so I lay my head on her shoulder and sniffle.
"Don't stay out too long, hun." She lets go of me and kisses me on the cheek. "Where's your phone?"
"I shattered it."
She pulls hers out of her pocket and hands it to me, "If anything goes wrong, try to call the house phone."
"Okay, mom." I quickly hug her again and exit the house through the kitchen door. Sitting on the steps, I quickly take my wallet from my purse and look in it. Eight dollars. That's more than enough.
* * *
Twenty minutes and a semi-long walk later, I'm standing at the register of a small off-brand Staples store, paying for a Mountain Dew, a blue hundred-sheet notebook, and a fifty-cent pack of mechanical pencils. I hand $4.56 to the man working the register, who has shaggy ear length brown hair and a stubble. He thanks me and I thank him and I take my items and leave. There is a library on this block, so I silently enter it and sit at a table with only two chairs, ignoring the strangers that sit at other tables. Ignoring the pain in my temples, I open the pack of pencils and the notebook. I tap my pencil on my thigh for a bit as I sip my Mountain Dew, wondering how to start my hopefully soon-to-be bestselling novel. An idea seeps into my brain, down my arm, and to my pencil, which begins to move fluidly. When I write, it's like I'm not even controlling the pencil. It controls me, influencing every movement of my wrist, and I'm only free of it's possession when I lay it down.
After an hour or so, I've filled up three pages, front and back, and I am just starting on the next sheet when I hear a voice.
"Do you mind if I sit here?" A boy, maybe seventeen years old, points to the chair across from me. He has thick black hair that goes almost down to his earlobes, and is wearing a t-shirt that reads 'IN CAFFEINE WE TRUST.' The letters on the shirt are blurry, as if they themselves had a bit too much caffeine. He is handsome, and I finally realize my mouth is halfway open, but I'm not speaking.
"Sure. No one's sitting here. Well, except me--and now you--if you want to..." Really? What's wrong with me? I mentally kick myself for being so awkward.
Thankfully, he sits down across from me, either not noticing, or not even minding my awkwardness. He sits across from me and slings a black Nike bookbag off his shoulder. He unzips it and produces a large textbook and a notebook. He must be doing schoolwork. He places them on the table and I go back to writing. I'm halfway through the front of the second page--and trying not to stare at the demigod in front of me--when I realize he's the one staring at me. I look up at him, blushing, and he smiles genuinely. I feel my cheeks become hotter, and look back down at my paper. But I don't write on it. I feel his forest green eyes on me, boring warm holes into my destroyed heart. I can't say that I don't like his attention, though. I look up at him and give a small smile. This time, I don't look away. Before I know it, we're having an all-out staring contest, an epic battle to determine the champion of awkward flirting. At least, I think it's flirting. Well, I hope more than think.
He inhales briefly. "What's your name?"
"Anna. What's yours?" I raise one eyebrow, still looking at him.
"I'm Max." He holds his hand out and I shake it. "I see you like to write. Can I read it?"
I sigh and lean back, motioning for him to take the notebook. "Don't be suprised when it sucks."
A few minutes later, he hands it back to me. "That's actually pretty good." He raises his eyebrows, and I blush intensely. "Hey, wanna go get lunch?" He looks at me, and I reply with two words, trying to sound casual.
"Sounds good."
YOU ARE READING
A Work in Progress
RomansaSixteen year old Anna is an aspiring writer, and it's what she loves. But when she is diagnosed with cancer, everything she knows changes, and she falls into a deep depression. But then she meets Max, a boy who shows her that even in the darkest tim...
