Jazzmyne's Letters Were Never Meant To Be Read

Electromagnetic Spectrum

Dear...Someone,

When a loved one dies, what's supposed to happen after that?

Because I don't know. I don't fucking know. I'm so clueless, I just want to rip out my hair in frustration, feel the pricks of pain and the shuddering sounds of tearing from its roots.

But I can't. The raven hairs on my head remain barely protruding from my scalp, from being cleanly shaved a few months ago. A cheesy gesture I've seen and read on those damn movies and books romanticizing terminal illness, as if that's the only way for someone to know how to live. I couldn't believe I bought their drama and shaved my head, but how do you really face the look on your little brother's eyes as he finds out that he had to lose all his hair, his pride and joy, for a fucked up brain surgery that wouldn't even give him any guarantee, not when he has a Grade III GlioBlastoma Multiforme.

Huh. GlioBlastoma Multiforme. I'd at least have a thousand bucks for every time that word pops into my head. GlioBlastoma Multiforme. The malignant kind, the most common form of astrocytoma, spreads to parts of the brain quickly, aggressive, invasive

"We need to debulk the tumor." The neurologist had grimly stated. "I recommend performing a craniotomy, if you want to increase lifespan to a year, best case scenario even 2 years."

It's terrible to wish to crack my skull open too, but I'd go through anything to unetched those taunting words in my head, or go back to the times before my eyes burned and blurred as the screen glared with these words, while a black hole lies at the pit of my stomach, before I clicked on the search button, before I read too much and hurt too much.

And maybe then I won't have to feel the clunky, stabbing pain distorting my insides as I revealed the masterpiece that is my homemade bald head in Mikey's clear blue sky room on the night before his surgery.

"Do you like my masterpiece?" I asked, theatrically.

He didn't need to voice out his thoughts, his puffy face bursting into bubbling laughter at the sight of me parading around the small space was enough of an answer. A space made small by the medical paraphernalia attached to him. It took much restrain not to falter, to quiver in the slightest in front of him, while looking at him. Mikey looked haunted with those tubes attached to his face, his body. He's so tiny, so fragile with his short, paling limbs and sunken cheeks. He looked as if he was nine when I knew, for a fact, that he's 12. His curly, brown hair reached up to his shoulders, a luscious crowning glory he sincerely adored and meticulously took care of. We used to spend countless nights playing dress up. My pocket money serving as funds for his love of ribbons and clip on flowers. Now, they're stored underneath what used to be his bed. I don't know what we're supposed to do with them. All I know is I can't see them. It already hurts too much to remember.

But I still remember.

I remember the machines appear bigger and more daunting beside him, scarier against the backdrop of the light blue wallpaper and light pink furniture. Everything in his room was light, until the beeping, bulky metal came and slowly suctioned in all that is bright and vivid. Like his eyes, especially his eyes.

Those warm hazel eyes, almost similar to mine, that used to remind me of sipping tender, hot chocolate in front of a fireplace as the middle of winter blow its kisses through the window, when he was still healthy. When there was no terminal insides eating him away, consuming first the warmth in his eyes until they're just a round block of brown dimming to a gut-wrenching black. It made staring him in the eye difficult, constricting, like a hand on my throat squeezing.

Staring into Mikey's eyes made me think of the electromagnetic spectrum, about visible light, about how the darkness is nothing but the absence of light.

I saw absence in Michael's eyes that night. 

He died the next day.

I think I've also lost a part of me that day.

I'm still figuring out how I'm going to find that again. Or if I ever will.

Love,

Jazzmyne

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Hi, I already love you coz you're reading this. Pls comment and vote so I'd feel happy and be more motivated to update, thank you~~~~