can·cer (noun)

A young girl from the 50s realizes that she's going to die.

“You’re so weird,” said a shrill, childish voice. It belonged to a little boy in my second-grade class, whom I’d accidentally bumped into in the hallway earlier that day.

“Freak,” was his friend’s input.

It really was an accident, but frankly, I’d always thought the two of them were quite stupid and deserved to be pushed in the hallways.

Alas, they were the single-minded sort of folk, and they weren’t about to leave me be after doing something so insulting to their reputation.

For payback, I assumed, the shorter boy--the one I’d inadvertently provoked--stepped forward with a forced-looking scowl and shoved me against the wall.

My head hit the faded maroon bricks with an obnoxious clunk, and I briefly registered a dull flash of pain, but my attention was soon focused on the shell-shocked expressions of the two boys in front of me.

“J-Jack! Let’s go!” shrieked the taller boy, grabbing his friend, Jack, by the sleeve and pulling him away. Together they bolted without looking back.

Trembling, I reached behind me and grasped the back of my head. It was wet, sticky.

I could feel it dripping down my neck--blood. So much blood.

I was at a funeral.

I knew this because of the itchy black dress I wore and the way my legs burned from the strain of standing for hours on end and the red, puffy eyelids that fluttered open to reveal the coffin before me.

Of course there was a coffin. It was long and wooden, branded with gold and carved with intricate floral patterns, reaching out from the center, upon which lay a single black rose.

Everything else was a blur; there was only the coffin and a ringing in my ears. It was colored with a sadness so deep and ravenous I was surprised to hear laughter, loud and raucous.

I started to realize that my body hurt more than it should have. My knees and ankles ached horribly. My eyes wouldn’t focus.

Stepping backward, away from the coffin, I bumped into someone behind me. He grabbed my arm. His sleeve was a crisp white, like a doctor’s coat, and he smelled like vaseline.

“Don’t worry,” the man said. It sounded like he’d said it many times before. Turning to look at him, I caught my breath at his wrinkled, sickly appearance.

Standing shock-still in his iron grip, my eyes flitted back to the coffin. The rose petals fluttered away as the lid to the coffin opened. The air was still. Laughter still rang from its shadows, forced and cheerful, but I couldn’t see who lay inside.

Curious, I leaned in--"

I sat up in bed with a jolt, hackles raised and fingers gripping the bed sheets so hard my knuckles were white. My room was a blurred, angry grey, just like the ashes of my father’s cigars. Familiar.

It was very late at night; cool wisps of air were sneaking in through the cracked open window, cradling me in a numbing cold through the fleece blankets. Still, sweat clung to my pajamas and dripped down my temple.

Shadows danced and spun about on the walls, putting on for me a little show, and I thought nothing of it. They were just trying to help me sleep.

As I always did when I woke up at night, I felt the urge to creep about the house. I decided I would get something to eat from the kitchen.

Instantly, I was at the foot of the stairs, peeking around the wall that separated the foyer from the living room. The light of a fireplace flickered in the hallway.

Someone was crying.

My mother was crying.

“I don’t know what to do,” she sobbed.

“You act as if I do, either!”

The two voices were muffled and watery. Pressure pooled in my ears as I tried to listen, leaning farther and farther away from the stairs and toward the sound. Clarity phased in and out with the throbbing of my headache.

“But--”

“What about money?”

“We can figure something out.”

“I can’t lose my job, Sarah.”

I let out the breath I was holding. Eavesdropping on my parents was easy, normal. Arguing about money was normal.

“It doesn’t matter!” My mother’s sweet, gentle voice was anguished and frantic. “I c-can’t lose her...”

The fireplace flickered cheerfully, mockingly.

“Darling.”

“We have to try again. There are other treatments, other options--” She broke off with a gasp and another choked sob.

My father’s voice was emotionless: “You heard what the doctor said. It’s useless. She can’t be saved.”

I gasped, slipping on the wooden stairs, and the voices stopped abruptly.

“Sweetheart?”

Everything was desperately slow for several excruciating moments. The pounding in my skull had gone; so had the air in my lungs, whooshing out of me like a broken pipe as I fell.

“Sweetheart!” screamed a thousand voices. “Darling, poor baby. Try again...”

My head hit the floor with a crack, and pain flooded my senses, but then the tile was no longer solid. I was submerged, inhaling water like a siphon while my lungs burned and my limbs flailed helplessly.

Channeling my panic, I began kicking toward what I knew were the fluorescent lights of an indoor swimming pool, distorted by the gentle waves above my head.

“She can’t be saved,” said the echo of my father, wobbly and muffled in the water.

“She can’t be saved!” the voice from the coffin cackled.

“Try again,” my mother howled. “Try again!”

“She can’t be sa-aved, she can’t be sa-aved!” jeered the memories of classmates I hadn’t seen in years. “You’re going to die, you’re gonna die, die, die, freak!”

Time came rushing back to me with a slap of water as my head breached the surface.

Blinking the stinging chemicals out of my eyes and breathing deeply, I surveyed my surroundings while treading water. No longer was the water lit by fluorescents--the sun hung over my head, reflecting across the water with a dandy innocence. I was at the beach.

I flinched slightly at the first brush of sand against my toes but gratefully planted my feet on the pebbly sea floor. Spotting my family on the shore, I waded quickly through the murky water toward land.

Once my feet were safely above the water, I let out a deep breath.

“Sweetheart, over here,” my mother said cheerfully. “We have a picnic!”

I lifted my chin a little bit. Picnics were nice.

Every step towards them felt like a mile, but I was soon sitting on the picnic blanket, being patted down with a towel by my mother.

“Would you like your sandwich, or some chips first?” my mother questioned, worrying over my ratty hair. I nodded, staring at the small red dots freckling the skin on my shoulders and chest.

“Oh, dear, it looks like you’ve got a sunburn,” my mother said, then turned to my father. “Didn’t I remind you to put sunblock on her?” she scolded.

The man didn’t even acknowledge my mother, instead looking at me strangely.

“Are you feeling alright?” he asked.

“Are you feeling alright?” asked the doctor.

I nodded once.

“No pain? Anywhere at all?”

Twice.

“Okay. Do you remember what to do if you need anything?”

Another nod. Every doctor and nurse followed the same script when they talked to me.

“Have you eaten today?”

Nod. Only four more to go.

“I’ll send a nurse over in an hour for your lunch, yes?”

Nod. Nod. Nod.

The three of us were seated at a very nice, polite little restaurant. My father had a roast, my mother a salad, and I a bowl of pasta.

The wooden chairs were hard and uncomfortable, and the restaurant smelled like grease and sadness.

“Are you feeling alright?” said a waitress in nurse's clothing. She held a clipboard instead of a notepad. Deciding to be honest for once, I shook my head no, and she left.

“You have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow,” my father said.

I hummed in agreement, pushing noodles around on my plate. I arranged them as a smiley face, and then a sad face.

“No, I think it’s on Tuesday,” my mother spoke up.

“I assure you, it’s tomorrow,” my father hissed, dropping his fork and knife with a loud clatter.

“Don’t be silly,” my mother replied with a giggle and a frightening smile on her face, “she’s going to die tomorrow.”

A whimper bubbled up in my throat, but I swallowed it down, staring at my food with great interest, even though it felt like I would never eat again.

“Everyone dies, dear,” she assured me, digging into her salad once more. My father resumed cutting up his steak as if we hadn’t just been talking about my death.

As they ate, a bubbly growth appeared in my food, dry and sickly like mold. I pushed my chair away from the table with a horrid screech. The growth multiplied, consuming my plate and reaching toward me. Swells of it burst like pimples, staining the table red.

“Cancer is a disease caused by an uncontrolled division of abnormal cells in a part of the body,” said my doctor in an overly gentle, patronizing voice.

My parents didn’t seem to notice what was happening. People in white coats filled every seat in the restaurant. They wrote in notebooks and fiddled with needles, staring at the tumorous mass in fascination.

I’m not stupid, I wanted to snap back. I don’t have brain cancer, do I? I didn’t say it out loud, though.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” I gasped, not daring to look back, but I could feel it following me, growing until it covered the walls. Something hot and wet trickled down my forehead, in my mouth, out of my nose and ears; metallic and sickly sweet on my tongue.

“Leukemia is cancer in the blood. That’s why you were bleeding so much. Remember?”

“Yeah.”

Someone grabbed my arm and pulled me away. The stench of vaseline and rubbing alcohol filled my nostrils. I stared at the doctor with wide eyes.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers. Then he smiled sadly, looking up. “You’re a smart girl, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” I said.

Being led out of the restaurant by the wrist, I caught a glimpse of my own arms. They were numb and swollen; bloody purple bruises painted my pale skin.

“Leukemia makes you very sick because your body doesn’t have enough white blood cells to fight off illness. In children, it’s...” he sighed again, turning to face me. “It’s almost always fatal.”

My stomach twisted and flipped, threatening to upheave itself in disgust and horror. Suddenly, I was pushed from behind and fell against a wooden surface.

It was slick with blood and sweat. There was no light, and the air smelled of dirt and rot. An itchy black dress clung to my legs.

“I’m sorry, kiddo.”

Author's Note

This was for a school project and the limit was ten pages, so I had to cut out a few parts, but hopefully, it still has the same effect.