The Fault in Our Infinities

Chapter 2: Bitter Wishes

I wake to the constant sounds of beeping. My head pounds, thudding behind my eyes. I know, even before I open my eyes, that I am in hospital. The stench of murky anti- bacterial spray and the underlying scent of death and decay fill my nose and I inhale it, not welcoming it, but acknowledging it. I have a love/hate relationship with the hospital; it serves as a constant reminder that I am dying but it gives me the treatment I need to sustain my sorry life another couple of months.

I can breathe again. I take a few deep breaths, relief flooding through me. My cannula is back in its place, above my upper lip, the nubbins in my nose. I have never been so thankful for such a small thing.

"Hazel?"

I open my eyes, blinking the blur from my vision groggily. I am hooked up to some machines – most of which are familiar. I roll my eyes and sigh.

"Dad?" I mumble, pulling my weight up so that I am sitting. It's then that I see that it is not my parents, but the boy from the fight. Augustus. He runs a shaky hand through his tousled brown hair, his blue eyes anxious.

"You look happy." I say sarcastically, wincing as my elbow cracks from inactivity as I stretch.

"I just watched a sick girl get pushed over by my best friend. I'm having a little battle with my conscience."

"Huh." I say, fiddling with my oxygen tubes. I itch – they put that ridiculously scratchy blue cover on the bed again. They know I hate it. It's even in my records.

After the silence becomes almost too much to bear, I speak, my voice bitter. "Which side is winning?"

He takes a step forward, guilt flashing across his face. So it's that side. "I'm sorry." He says, quietly. "For what happened. Are you okay?"

I stare at him and my mind is so groggy that I don't even think about my next words. "I'm okay, okay?" I frown. Isn't there some rule against putting two words next to each other in speech?

A pause. "Okay."

My lip twitches. "Okay." There's another stretch of silence. Not as awkward, but not entirely comfortable, either. It's too filled with tension. There's something else he wants to say – something else on his mind. I don't have anything to say. I'm not very good at small talk.

Eventually, he grins lopsidedly. "You're sure, right? I mean, the thing came out and everything. There was even blood."

I grimace. Ugh. So I didn't even half-die gracefully. "Yeah, if the cannula is pulled out too violently, it can be a bit bloody." I shrug.

He nods, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. His blue eyes seem darker than I remember, darker with the shadow of his self-loathing.

"Stop it." I say.

He shoots me a quizzical look. "Did you take a hit to the head? I didn't say anything."

"No." I shake my head, frustrated. "The look on your face. Like you want to jump in front of a bus. Stop blaming yourself. It could have happened to anyone."

"Yeah, but it happened to you-"

"Does that make it any different?" I say, my voice rising. "Because I have cancer? So if your friend had hit anyone else, you wouldn't care? Is that what you're saying?"

He grimaces. "No, but-"

"I am sick – excuse the pun – of people treating me differently just because I have a shorter life span. I got in the way of a fight. I should have known I'd be at risk; it's my fault. Stop beating yourself up because your friend knocked down the sick, cancer girl. Get over it, already."