I remembered a line from a movie I once watched—something about life being like a box of chocolates, never knowing what you're going to get. I was just a child then, and I remember laughing at how absurd and silly it sounded, the idea of comparing life to a box of chocolates.
"Mr. and Mrs. Sledge… I'm afraid this won't be easy to hear. Especially for a parent. Your son has cancer."
The doctor paused, choosing his words carefully.
"Under normal circumstances, with the technology we have today, most cancers are highly treatable—often curable. But your son's case is… different. What we've found is something we don't fully recognize. It appears to be new. Until we understand it better, there's very little we can do beyond studying it."
I had always thought of my old man as a cold person, someone who didn't show his emotions. But when I saw how he reacted to the news, it felt as though a cannon had torn through my chest and obliterated my heart. It was the first time I had ever seen him cry, the first time I had witnessed him express such raw, powerful emotion. My mother, who was sitting beside him, reached out to comfort him, her own tears flowing freely.
Behind the sterile white curtains, I lay curled on my side, feigning sleep. I desperately fought back the urge to cry, my body trembling with a mixture of frustration and sadness. I clutched my pillow tightly, burying my face in its soft fabric, hoping to muffle the sobs that threatened to escape.
It had started with a simple nosebleed. At first, I hadn't thought much of it, dismissing it as normal because of the unusually hot weather that day. But as the months passed, the bleeding became more frequent, accompanied by increasingly severe headaches. Sometimes, I would even faint. That's when I knew that something was terribly wrong.
By then, the situation had spiraled into something far worse, though I couldn't help but wonder if an earlier diagnosis would have changed anything. Even if I had taken it seriously and sought medical attention sooner, would the outcome have been different? From that day forward, I experienced something that felt closer to hell.
The constant, unrelenting pain in my head made it nearly impossible to stay awake. Everyday i longed for end to the suffering. I lived my last six months and all of them were agonizing.
By the seventh, I was numb. The medication practically running through my veins, replacing my blood. The pain was gone, but I didn't feel good either. Stripped of everything, just a crude replica of who I used to be.
I coughed, and blood splattered onto my hand. I stared at it, the sight only amplifying my feelings of pathetic helplessness. My arms were so thin that they barely resembled limbs at all. It looked like there was no muscle on it and opening it would instantly reveal the bone. I laughed weakly, a ragged, broken sound that left me gasping for air, each breath a struggle.
Suddenly, an unimaginable surge of pain that through my head. I fell, tears streaming down my cheeks as I desperately wished for it all to end, but it was as if the world was mocking me, reveling in my suffering.
"Won't somebody please be the fucking good guy and shoot me!!!"
I screamed internally, the silent plea echoing in the darkness of my mind. My consciousness began to fade, the edges of my awareness blurring.
Everything turned to black.