Deadly Secrets

Chapter One (Dreadful Horror)

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" That's what most kids get asked these days. They will say a police officer, a doctor, a firefighter, a teacher. Not me. Why? Easy. I'm not normal. Not as in antisocial. As in my life. No I'm not poor, weird, crazy. None of that. I'm a cancer surviver and one of the rare eight. (That will be explained later). I was rich. The richest kid in my country, Salvador. I lived in Santa Ana, the home to my father's successful cure. He has created a type of medicine that cures cancer. That's how I'm still here in this world. I was diagnosed with the disease at the age of two. My father was a chemist. He tried everything on me. It eventually got to a point where my black hair turned white and my brown eyes turned blue. My father then said that the medicine he gave me must have made my genes change. He apologized for what had happened. I accepted it without crying or throwing a tantrum. A bit surprising since I was only five. Reason I did not was because he tried his best to make me survive. I did not want him to feel more bad for his mistake. I told him I liked it, even though I really hated it inside. He felt a bit better for my opinion about it. I was just six when my doctors decided to cut me off of chemotherapy. They said it did not affected my cancer. A rare thing they said. My mother did not believe such horrible news. She then argued with the doctors that they need to keep on treating me for the sake of my life. They then argued back that if I continued living it will just get worst and kill me eventually. I agreed with that. Why live? There was no more hope for me. I felt the curse killing me every single second. I hated it. All of it. Throwing up almost every day, all the sharp needles poking my skin, not going to school, not being able to go to places with my family, not having a life. I would say that I never had happiness during the time period. I did not even know what such a word meant or felt like. Depression was the only feeling I had. Nothing else. My mother then stopped arguing with the doctors. "Lo sentimos mucho, señora Galo," ("We are very sorry, Mrs. Galo,") they said. They then exited the room. My mother then turned to face me. Tears running down her face. I looked at her, not worried at all. She then fell down and started screaming in Spanish. She will scream things like, "¿Por qué?" ("Why?"), "¿Por qué Dios?" ("Why God?"), "¿Por qué mi hijo?" ("Why my son?"), "¿Por qué no yo?" ("Why not me?"), etc. At first in the beginning of this horrible life, I would cry. Not now. Why? I'm tired of crying. Crying about my disease, my mother's misery, my father's headaches, my miserable life. I just laid on the hospital bed. Not even attempting to comfort my mother. I know I should, but I did not dare to. It will just make me cry and dread my upcoming day. A day that will become permanent history. A day that will end my future. A day that my parents dreaded to come since the beginning of this miserable life. A day I will take my last breathes in this world. My death day.