Louis-
St George's, University of London, 9.45am.
"Radiation and radioactive substances are used for diagnosis, treatment, and research. X-rays, for example..."
It's not like I'm going to regret later that I'm not taking notes and I'd be glad to listen to Mr. Starling now, but-
She put her dirty blonde hair into a messy bun again, she's wearing a coffee colored sweater, black jeans and, I believe, her favorite army boots.
"Many low-dose palliative treatments cause minimal or no side effects, although..."
I still remember meeting her at the party that Nate organized on the Christmas Eve. The only party I've been to in the first term. She was wearing a dark purple dress and a disarming smile. I have to admit that I was feeling miserable that day but I mistakenly thought that it would be rude to look like I was invited to a funeral, that's why I decided to get drunk with Nate; and maybe it's because I was laughing too loudly, maybe because I ended up dancing on tables, but I was told the next day that she asked somebody for my name.
I'd love to be able to walk over to her, flashing a confident smile like everybody else does.
"Hi, I'm Louis, we have almost the same classes and I'm the idiot who drank too much on the Christmas Eve, remember me?" I'd say.
But now I've got a terrible headache and all I can do is put my head down on the desk and start blaming everybody around me for the throbbing temples and for the boring classes. But most of all, I blame Cassie. I blame this girl for her sweet smile, her childish way of hiding the fingers under the sleeves, for her brown irises, her reasons to laugh, her purple dress and for her damn life.
I blame her for reminding me I have no chance to play the game.
The bell finally rings and the classroom gets empty.
"Mr. Tomlinson?"
"Yes?"
"I saw you're not feeling well, maybe you should stay at home a couple of days?"
"No, sir, I'm fine, thank you."
* * *
I rent a flat in a rather quiet neighborhood. I like it because it's small enough not to make me feel lonely. A comfortable bedroom and a tiny kitchen, a tv that I rarely turn on and a radio that never lets the silence take over the place.
Once I'm home, I head towards the bathroom. Maybe I take too many showers lately but I do believe that the warm water pouring over me washes the illness away from my pale skin. Yet every time I look in the mirror, my eyes drift down to the plastic pill containers around the sink, reminding me that it's still here.
Maybe if I didn't know about it, maybe if I didn't force myself to think about it, I'd be happy. But I don't have the right.
No, I'm not afraid to get disappointed. I don't have enough time on that. I'm just too tired to be happy, to smile; I can't even quit the university and follow my dreams though I've never thought about them. So in conclusion, it makes no sense to me.
The bathroom mirror steamed up, hiding my reflection and I realize I've been standing too long in front of it. A deep breath and I already find myself lying on the couch.
Mayb- No. That's just stupid. I'm mentally exhausted of believing and day dreaming. But the radio seems to have broken and it's just too quiet. A perfect place to build up a castle of 'maybe's.
Please, can I just fall asleep? Just for a few of hours.
* * *
This place scares me. And it's not because of the smell of blood or the single sight of white coats. No, it's just.. such a familiar feeling when I step in. Like I've always belonged to it. Like I'm nothing more than a simple illness that has to be treated, examined or let alone to die on a sterile bed.
"Hi, Louis, how are you?"
"Wonderful."
"Didn't change your mind about the chemio-?"
"No."
"Are you sure? It's going to-"
"Give me more time, what for?"
"As I said, it's your decision."
I'm still trying to figure out why I didn't fight. Why did I let it in? Yes, it happens and people lose their hope but I'm not sure if I had it at all. Why am I not trying to live?
Because memories are born to last a long-long time, because what's the point if everything's gone in a matter of second; because I'm just too tired.
"Any pain?"
"Not yet."
Because I'd rather lie to myself.
