Autompne

four

FOUR

I hated going to school. I hated the jocks and the cheerleaders. I hated the fact that there was such thing as a popular clique. I hated that everyone felt judged. I hated the guys who thought dealing drugs and having sex was cool. I hated it all and it was only during school that I was happy that I was dying. I wouldn't have to go to school pretty soon.

One person made the school worthwhile and only one person; my English teacher. Perhaps the only reason he didn't think of me as the ill freak was that I never actually told him that I was ill. Word got around fast but I guess nobody liked gossiping with the teachers.

Most people thought being friends with a teacher was weird but in a way, it made me feel better. I wasn't doing it for the grades but because I enjoyed talking to adults. They seemed smarter and more experienced and I didn't like teenagers even though I was one. During lunch, I would normally escape to the English classroom and read books while my teacher—Mr. Harris—worked on whatever he was supposed to work on that day. That day, though, I'd decided that it was the right time to tell him that I was dying—that I was sick to begin with. I didn't know what his reaction would be but I expected a simple 'I'm sorry' because he probably had a thousand more students he could replace me with.

I walked into the classroom, lunch bag in one hand and nothing in the other. I usually had a book in the other hand but I didn't think I'd have time to talk to Mr. Harris and read. I took a seat as Mr. Harris looked up.

"You don't have a book today," he furrowed his eyebrows, staring at the empty space where my book would be.

"Are you busy?" I asked and he shook his head. "I need to talk to you about something."

He nodded as he stacked the papers he was grading on top of each other and put them aside. He dropped the pen in the pen holder and pushed aside everything else on his desk so his attention was on me and only me. That was what I loved about Mr.  Harris so much—he gave you his full attention when you needed to talk to him about something that lasted more than two seconds.

"I don't know how to tell you this but," I started. "I'm sick."

"Do you need to go home or something?" he asked, worry washing over him. "I can ask the nurse to call your mom."

"No, no, I'm fine," I said and he looked confused right then. "I meant… I have a terminal disease. I'm dying. I have schizoaffective disorder."

Mr. Harris stayed silent and that worried me. Did he not think much of it? Did he not care? Or did he simply need me to explain more?

"I only have about seventeen days," I said. "Twenty-seven if I'm lucky."

My mom didn't want me to put up a countdown in my room. She didn't want me to know how much I had left so I could simply live but I felt the need to put up a countdown on my wall. I wanted to know when death would be coming so I would be prepared. My mom went as far as to say that maybe I would be cured. She tried to give me back the one thing I'd lost; hope.

"It basically means that my messaging system in the nerve cell doesn't work properly as a normal human's system does," I explained my disease to try and fill the silence. "I never sleep. I mean, I do get about an hour or two of sleep but sometimes I never sleep. I don't feel the need to. There's no cure. My organs are going to fail at some point and I'm going to die."

A minute later, Mr. Harris was still quiet. He continued to stare at the pen that he had put in the pen holder not too long ago and that was when I started to panic, "I hope you don't think I'm telling you this because I want you to treat me any different. I was told that it'd be easier to tell a friend and—"

"You know what my wife said to me when she left me?" he asked and I was confused by it but said nothing so he continued, "she said that she was dying. She said that she couldn't handle being around me because she was dying but I disobeyed her and followed her to the hospital where she died."

"I'm sorry about that," I said even though I didn't really believe that I'm sorry would do anything to him or his wife.

"You know what the last thing she said to me was?" he smiled, a tear dropping down his cheek slowly. Was this because of his wife or me? "She told me I'd changed her life and someday someone was going to change mine just like I'd changed her's."

Mr. Harris never spoke much about his personal life. We mostly talked about our hobbies or books we both liked. The fact that he was sharing something so personal to him confused me.

"You changed my life, kid," he laughed softly, wiping the tear away before it made its way down to his chin. "And I will never forget that."

I expected a simple 'I'm sorry' but what I got was much better. All I ever wanted was to change lives; change people's perspectives on things and leave a mark on my way out. I wanted people to remember me and I wanted to have a huge impact on their lives. Instead of a simple 'I'm sorry', I changed someone's life through my existence and that made me happier than anything ever could. At that moment, I didn't care that I was dying and I didn't feel so alone and depressed.

It was people like him who made dying not sound so bad.

**

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