Because Of Joan

Chapter 1.

Adaline tries to compensate for my inevitable death, which, I must admit, I take full advantage of. Currently, she is gone on an errand, which has both positive and negative effects. The positive is that I don't have to worry about being pestered every minute about whether my food is too cold, which she does merely out of habit due to the fact that I am sort of particular about what I ingest. The negative, of course, is that I'm left alone with the pesky heart monitor, and I have to get up on my own to turn on the music that drowns it out. All in all, I enjoy being alone. An extra human presence is redundant. I have myself and that's the only person I need.

We moved from Whitefish, Montana to this place not long before Maria decided she was going goth. I am forced by mere habit, since she isn't here to represent herself, to clarify in her words that she "isn't goth. She's punk". Frankly I think she's in denial. However, I've always been one to be the better person, and therefore decide not to dwell on this particular disturbance, when I could continue my aforementioned train of thought. The better and more politically correct term for when we arrived in Watford City is, September 3rd, 13:42:02 military time. I know this because I checked my watch as soon as we came to the "Welcome to Watford City" sign. One of the first things I noticed upon entering this state, is that there is a severe lack of mountain range in North Dakota. In fact, the closest we came to mountains upon our arrival was when we passed through the Theodore Roosevelt National Park on I-94 and I-85. In my hometown, mountains are a common landmark. They dominate the sky and seem as natural to me as the air I breathe. Unfortunately, even the air I breathe here is less natural, as it is now almost always tainted with the harsh smell of latex gloves and sterilized machinery or the smell of dirt piles, gas, and oil.

The house we moved into isn't much to brag about either. It's modest, with average sized bedrooms, a bathroom with cracked tile, an unfinished basement and an abomination of a view: dirt piles, pale sky, and crummy, mud-colored grass on balding hills.

"It's quaint" Adaline had said upon entering. I disagreed, and since I did so out loud, Uncle Conroy quickly replied with a disciplinary huff that only adults can give. In truth, he isn't much more of an adult than me. He was born a mere four years, one month, two weeks, and three days before me, and the way I see it, hardly holds any sort of authority over me. After all, I will be eighteen next May. However, since he is Adaline's brother, and therefore my Uncle, he believes that the four years' difference makes some astronomical statement regarding who should wear the pants in this "family".

Maria was the last to see the inside of the house. She unknowingly sided with me.

"It looks like a dishrag" she had said, popping her gum and unsnapping the buckles of her boots. Uncle Conroy shot her the same disapproving huff he shot me, and she stuck her tongue out at him, which is what Adaline and I consider an average Father-Daughter exchange these days. Indeed, Uncle Conroy isn't Maria's actual father. In truth, Maria is his non-biological niece. And though she's my arch nemesis in most cases, I was grateful this time for someone who could see from my perspective, even if said-person's opinion was four years, six months, three weeks, and four days younger than mine.

A noise comes from outside, snapping me back into the present, and I realize that it's Adaline back from her errand. She promised me coffee. It's perhaps the one thing I look forward to these days, what with being cooped up in a hospital most of the time. Maria always jeers at me for my preferred coffee components, calling it a "sissy combo", but she doesn't understand that in my delicate condition, we have to keep the ratio balanced. (Once I was diagnosed, we had to lower my sodium and caffeine intake, therefore my coffee had to be made special with sodium free milk. Since gas-station coffee isn't usually sold beside my CVS milk-of-magnesia milk, nor is it usually caffeine free, Adaline has to make it for me. And it must be made from our own coffee-maker at home.)

There's nothing I enjoy more than leafing through my stamp collection and listening to my favorite music selection whilst sipping my coffee, so I hurry out of bed to turn up the music, and pull out the leather-bound album in which I keep the stamps. I started collecting when I was six, after Adaline bought me a beginners' catalogue to stamp collecting. I started listening to Jazz after Grandmother Sherry introduced me to it at age ten. Since then it's been stuck within me like the I.V I've now grown used to, although with a much more positive affiliation.

To my surprise, it is not Adaline who enters, but a Strange Girl. I'm one that can observe from an outside perspective, that she does have quite a few attractive features, without letting it consume my whole mindset. I suppose to myself that perhaps she is a nurse in training or something like that. After all, I am not fully familiar with the inner workings of this hospital. Note To Self: it would bode well for me to find out. After a longer glance at her, I conclude that if she is a nurse in training, the hospital must really be going bankrupt, because she seems to dress in a way that seems unfit for her profession: tattered blue jeans, blue hair, and a baggy shirt that says: "This T-shirt will offend some people". Her eyes are the color of coffee, which further increases my want for coffee, and for a moment I think of the hospital regulations, which forbade Adaline from bringing the coffee maker here. It infuriates me that such a thing is a regulation, and I must remember to pen a strongly worded document to whomever runs this establishment. For now, however, I address the coffee-eyed-stranger-girl.

"What do you need?" I ask.

"Your music-," she says matter of factly.

"I beg your pardon?" I inquire. It comes out as a sort of coughing-laugh, one that would usually land me whatever I desire from Adaline. The coffee-eyed-stranger-girl only laughs, and I'm somehow transfixed by how the shade of blue in her hair can catch the light in so many different ways. She resembles a blue fruit loop.

"Your music-," she reiterates. "-It sounds like someone shoved a trumpet into a car-engine." This makes me scoff. Some people's ignorance is baffling.

"I'll have you know that this is some of the most pristine jazz music your ears will ever listen to," I say, slamming my stamp book shut. As an afterthought I add "-and that happens to be a saxophone currently playing, thank you very much." Coffee eyes seems to find this even more amusing, since she laughs. She then thinks nothing of manners and walks over to the radio, turning the volume all the way down. The room becomes silent except for the beeping of the heart monitor. To think that I will have to get out of bed once more, just to readjust the dial to the position it was already perfectly positioned on! The ignorance.

"Sorry," she says, in a non-apologetic tone. "But my ears can hardly take that torture any longer-." Her statement is blatant, and ignorant, which comes to no surprise to me at this point. She's worse than Maria, who at least has the courtesy to stay out of my hospital room most of the time and leave me to my business. However, I get no chance to tell her off, because she shortly follows up her statement with a method many people refer to as 'changing the topic'.

"You look bored cooped up in here," she verbalizes.

"I'm fine." I reply, trying to make it clear that her presence is not wanted. With the dial adjusted, I can now hear the heart-monitor beeping rhythmically beside me. It reminds me that though death may come for me soon, I do not fear death, but I sooner fear this girl grinning at me from the door, as if she knows some secret of mine that I myself do not know.

"Right well- I've got to go, dude, but it was great meeting you. Please keep the ear rape to a minimum though. Thanks." With one final chuckle, she leaves and I'm left alone with the heart-monitor and my stamp collection. Fumbling to arise from my bed, I turn the music up once more, but not as loud as it was before. The last thing I need is another disturbance.