Finishing Crazy

Finishing Crazy (22)

When I come to, there’s a different sort of pain in my side than there was before. I cautiously probe the sore area of my torso with two fingers, and feel something in my skin where it hurts.

Slowly, I hike up my hospital gown slightly on one side and see stitches.

Why do I have stitches?

As soon as my mind begins to explore the possibilities for why I might be in the hospital- again- a knock sounds at the door. Fear shoots through me, and I don’t say anything in hopes that whoever it is will just leave.

No such luck.

The door quietly clicks as it opens and a tall blonde figure steps into the room.

“Kyra,” he whispers.

I suddenly remember who this boy is. He was the one trying to hurt me before.

I look at the bed around me in alarm, thinking about the stitches in my side. Did he do those? If not,  what did he do to me?

“Go away.” I tell him, my voice trembling.

Instead of listening to me, he steps closer and walks over to my nightstand, placing new flowers he’s been carrying in a pale blue vase full of dead ones.

“Where’s the trash?” He asks me, as if we are having an ordinary conversation.

I don’t look away from him, but I don’t answer him either.

He shrugs and walks over to the corner, spotting one of the small, white bins there and tossing the dead flowers inside of it. Then he walks back over to the nightstand, placing one more thing on it.

“That’s for you.” He tells me as he sets down the pink envelope.

Pink. I hate pink.

I lock my eyes with him, not able to tear them away and feeling my anxiety increase.

“I miss you Kyra.” He says. “Come back soon, okay?”

I look at him strangely. “What?” I splutter, not understanding.

He must be lying again.

“I said, I miss you.” He repeats, and then turns to leave.

I don’t move an inch until I hear the door click back into place. Slowly, I allow myself a sigh of relief. He didn’t hurt me, just brought flowers and an… envelope.

I turn my head, just slightly, seeing the light pinkish colored parcel sitting across from me. I could reach my arm out and touch it, if I wanted to.

Somewhere inside of me something is telling me to pick it up and read it. The urge grows stronger, despite my fighting, and I’m about to pick it up when the door bursts open and someone comes running into the room.

I flinch as the girl attacks me, a huge grin on her face.

Uh oh, I think, my fear forgotten and being replaced with an odd confusion.

“Mariah? What are you doing here?” I ask incredulously.

My best friend in the whole world, who’s just spend the whole summer in Canada, straightens up and looks at me, one hand on her hip defiantly.

“You know, I should be the one asking questions here.” She tells me crossly.

Here comes the ranting, I think , bracing myself for the blow and starting a mental countdown.

Three, two-

“I get out of my car and go straight to your house right when I come home, only to find out that my best friend is in the hospital. Why? It was only one summer!” She says.

I’m about to open my mouth to tell her why, but she cuts me off again.

“And you have cancer!”

“Well, I did-”

But Mariah cuts me off again.

“I don’t care how much my mother says we’re going on a ‘technology-free’ trip, next time you better call me or I’m going to-”

“Language!” I yell, cutting her off before she starts streaming cuss words at me. Mariah may be in my Sunday school class, but that doesn’t make her a saint.

She rolls her eyes and slumps down into a chair next to me.

“I just… can’t believe I missed that.” Mariah tells me, a little mellower than just a second ago.

I sigh and look at her.

“It’s fine, it’s not like it was all that fun to experience.” I tell her, vivid flashbacks if chemotherapy and hospital visits coursing through my mind.

Suddenly, I am reminded of how my kidney is failing and I’m still going to die. The experience isn’t over yet. It’ll end when I’m dead.

A tear slides down my cheek and Mariah stands up to hug me.

“Hey, it’s alright.” She whispers.

I laugh bitterly.

“No, Mariah. It’s not.”

She shakes her head, holding mine in her hands while looking at her intensely.

“Of course it is.” She tells me. “You’re better now, aren’t you?”

I pause.

My mom must have told her about the cancer, who else knows? I didn’t tell anyone at school other than Bryan, because I didn’t think it was anything that anyone else really needed to know. After all, I don’t even have the cancer anymore.

For some reason, though, my mom left out the part about how I’m still dying. Despite all of the treatments I got, my success with responding to them and a new kidney, I’m still going to die.

I don’t want to talk about it. I really, really don’t, but somewhere, inside of me, I know that I need to tell Mariah. I can’t tell her that I’m fine when I know I’m not; I can’t tell her that nothing is wrong and that my health is perfectly okay. Mariah deserves the truth, and now is as good of a time as any.

I take another deep breath before beginning.

“I had cancer, and I beat it.” I tell her. “But the only reason I did, was because I received a kidney…”

I trail off suddenly, my mind completely obscured by the image of that blonde boy standing in my room, not even ten minutes ago. The one holding the pink envelope.

I look away from Mariah and then over at the nightstand, shifting slightly in my bed so that my fingertips can just barely grasp it. Pulling it closer to me, I begin to tremble.

I sit there, just staring at it for a moment before opening it.

“What’s that?” Mariah asks, but I ignore her.

My thumb travels the crease at the top of the envelope, gingerly ripping it open, careful not to tear the paper inside.

I pull out the contents and set the envelope down on my lap, my heart racing.

I stare at the small print, my mind racing. The message is short, only three words, but it is enough to break me out of my reverie. It is enough to break the fear and paranoia I’ve been feeling towards him, to make me realize that what happened with him wasn’t real- that he was never really trying to hurt me, because the only thing that he’s been doing is trying to help.

I’ve been the one doing the hurting.

Looking down at the words, I feel awake again; because it’s proof that I was being delusional earlier.

Running my finger across the page, I feel the tears begin to flow.  I’ve hurt him, told him to go away and said that I hated him… and this is what he tells me.

Written in Bryan’s small handwriting are three simple words.

I love you.

Sorry this is so short! I'll update sooner next time to make up for it:) Thank you for reading lovlies!:)

Rachelle ♥