Dad takes me back to the hospital. We don't talk much along the drive home. But we are smiling and not trying to kill one another so that's progress if you ask me. I feel better now that we have at least tried to sort things out. I feel myself sigh. I feel like I am a story, that I am not a real human being with real feelings and emotions, but rather a puppet in someone else's story. Like my every move is pre-determined by the movement of someone else's fingers on a keyboard in some parallel universe.
Everything in my life has been normal, unchanging and unmoving. Then I got cancer and everything hit a climax, my life felt apart and then when I moved here, it felt apart again. Then I met Aimee, as if the writer wanted to give me a sense of hope, to give something the reader to relate to. Like love is enough to keep anyone's hope thriving.
But now as we head back to the hospital down the windy roads from the beach, I no longer feel like I am living within the middle of the story, but more like I'm reaching its conclusion. I feel like my story is reaching its ending, but I feel like this writer- whoever they are- doesn't like happy endings.
YOU ARE READING
Blake and Aimee
Teen FictionA John Green style short novel situated around the lives of two teenagers; Blake and Aimee. Blake is a pessimistic, self-loathing cancer patient while Aimee is a seemingly optimistic, introverted book worm. But there is more beneath the surface. As...
