charlotte....dontjudgeme

Charlotte

“Charlotte and Chase Drexel please report to the office immediately. Thank you.” The announcement came on in the middle of the day, April of my Freshman year.

Almost in unison, everyone in the classroom where I was turned around to look at me. I always sat at the very back of the room.

“Charlotte,” Ms. Keyes said. I could feel her eyeing me curiously from behind her tiny patterned square-frame glasses. Slowly, I looked up to meet her gaze. She was standing at the front of the classroom, but she could’ve been a million miles away. It wouldn’t have made a difference. “I suppose you should…”

I nodded, getting to my feet, wishing that this didn’t have to happen. On any other day I would’ve been more than grateful to escape the hell hole the government trapped me in 30 hours a week. Any day except that day, because there were only two situations where I would be called down to the office in the middle of a class. Both involved worst case scenarios. Both involved my mother.

I could feel the eyes of all the people in the classroom follow me as I walked to the door at the front of the room, pushing it open. Quietly, I stepped out into the hallway. I was almost free. Almost, but not really.

Inside the office, it was completely silent. There were two people there, both of whom seemed like they didn’t really want anything to do with the other. The first, I was surprised to see. She was the girl who lived in the house next door to mine, the one who’s dad was a doctor. Her name was Jasmine, she was in my grade. I didn’t see her that often around school. Usually when I did see her, she was walking around our neighborhood with her friend Hayden.

The second person in the office, I was not surprised to see. Ms. Rae, the school’s secretary, was sitting at her desk towards the back of the room, reviewing some paperwork. She looked up as the door slammed behind me.

“I’m Charlotte Drexel,” I told her.

Ms. Rae looked shocked for a minute, and I wondered if she thought I was lying. She didn’t know me, of course. If she had, she would know that no one wanted to be me—no one would even want to pretend they were me.

After a few seconds, she pushed her chair back on its wheels, standing up. “Yes, Charlotte Drexel. Of course.”

She motioned for me to follow her. I stepped closer to her desk, watching as she turned around and disappeared behind a door. I knew I needed to follow her, but suddenly I couldn’t move.

I was praying that I was wrong. I would’ve taken a detention, a suspension, an expulsion for God’s sake. But I hadn’t done anything wrong, at least not that I could remember. Truthfully, I hadn’t really done anything at all, besides breathe and sit, in a while.

“Charlotte?” Ms. Rae was standing in the doorway of the room she had disappeared into again. Faintly, I could hear the voices of three other people come from the room, their conversation hushed.

I bit my lip against whatever it was that I always felt when something bad happened, or someone made fun of me. Then, just barely, I heard my mother’s voice.

“Charlotte?”

“Mom? What’s wrong? Mom?” I rushed towards the door, shoving it open. I could feel my heart beating like it was trying to escape from my chest through my wind pipe. It didn’t help that a lump about the size of my heart had formed in the back of my throat, as well.

“Daddy’s gone.” I looked down by my mother’s feet at my sister, her usually tan complexion pallid, sitting with her legs crossed, leaning against the wall. She was eleven, then.

Looking up from Adrienne to my mother, I could feel 8 pints of complex fear flowing through my veins where my blood should’ve been. My mother wouldn’t even look me in the eye.

There was only one other place I could look. My brother, Chase, had obviously arrived in a much more timely manner than I had. He was sitting in a plastic chair across the cubicle sized room from my mother and Adrienne. I could see his fists clenched so hard, it was cutting off the circulation in his fingers.

“Chase,” I said, meaning to be loud but coming up with a sound only barely audible. My brother looked up at me. I saw two things.

First, a small gash just above his eyebrow, the dried blood seeming to have been taken care of hastily. Daddy did that, I remember thinking to myself, Daddy left.

Then, behind the physical gash, I could see another injury. I could see it in Chase’s eyes, blankly staring at the wall behind my mother. I could see it in the way his mouth was set, it wasn’t the same as it always was. I could see it in everything, everyone—my mother, my sister, my brother, even Ms. Rae—the loss. I could feel it, the room itself almost filled with the kind of air, the kind of smell, that makes you want to break down and cry.

The loss was everywhere, trapping me in, trapping us in—my family. My worn, broken family.

“He left us.” That was all my brother said, all he could say. I thought of all the things that had ever been said to me: all the teasing, mocking, insults. I thought of all the times people had laughed at me, spread rumors about me, backstabbed me. I thought of how I used to cry, when I was really little, but mostly all the times I should’ve cried, and didn’t. I thought about everything that had ever seemed bad to me, all the times I wondered if it was really worth living. But it was these words from my brother, the only person who I could trust, the only person who never judged me, that shot down every one of my carefully constructed emotional barriers. It was these words that left me feeling so empty inside, a big hole left where my organs were, only to be filled with the loss.

I started to cry, after so long, I finally did. But it wasn’t being teased or backstabbed to laughed at that made me cry. It was because I had thought, at one time, my dad loved me.

After Charlotte...Idk.

ONE

Hayden

To Charlotte,

I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.

You died on a Wednesday. I remember it so clearly, like a movie I’ve watched so many times, I can recite the actors’ lines, even though I myself never needed to memorize them. It plays over in my head, sometimes, before I go to bed or when I’m alone with no one to distract me. Sometimes it surprises me when I remember, other times it doesn’t, because I know the movie is going to roll. Like the time I saw your sister in Wal-Mart with her boyfriend, and I made my mom leave because your sister reminded me so much of you. That time, and so many before and after it, I cried for hours as the movie rolled in my head—my story, your story.

It was just before first bell, and I could hear someone was calling my name. At first, it was distant, seeming almost as if I shouldn’t be able to hear it. Then, though, it was getting closer. Suddenly, it was the only thing I could hear.

I looked around in every direction, unsure of where the voice was coming from. The view from behind me made me feel somewhat like Moses parting the Red Sea. People were pulling away from the crowd, towards either wall of the hallway. Something was wrong, I knew it already, because running through the parting sea of people, was Jasmine. She was crying.

“Charlotte’s dead,” she told me, nearly tackling me to the ground in the middle of the hallway, grasping my shoulders. She was really crying, her voice cracking on the words as she shook me with what seemed like unintentional force. “Hayden, Charlotte’s dead.”

“What?” As I said this, the bell rang, but I stayed where I was, in the middle of the emptying hallway while Jasmine gripped my shoulders so hard her knuckles were turning white.

Approximately a million and one thoughts flew through my mind, some blurring together into incoherent phrases and words, like the little white word magnets that people make poems with on their kitchen appliances when they have too much time on their hands.

Charlotte. You, what happened to you? What was it that Jasmine said? Dead. Charlotte’s dead.

Holy. Shit.

“Jasmine!” The hallway had cleared out—it was just Jasmine and I, alone—it made everything seem so much louder. “Jasmine,” I said again, my voice coming out in a whisper. “What happened? What happened to her?”

“Hayden,” she said, her voice steady and calm, too calm. “Sit down.”

“What?” I snapped at her, giving her a look like she was crazy.

“Dammit, Hayden, sit down!” she insisted, pushing my shoulder towards the tile floor with her hand. She’d never been this impatient. I was afraid, afraid for you, afraid for Jasmine, afraid for me. So I sat down.

Jasmine sat down beside me, her expression softer, the intensity in her eyes draining. Her gaze was on the speckled white tile under her leg. She turned to me, taking a breath in.

“Charlotte killed herself.”

Instantly, all the blood in my face dropped, sinking down into my feet. It felt like it was all coming out of me, making me ice cold. I killed you. That was my first thought. I killed you.

Beside me, Jasmine was still looking at the floor, rubbing her finger over the smooth white tile. “Her mom called us this morning. My dad went over to see her. When he came back home, he said he watched her…”

“I always meant to.” Hot tears were sliding down my cheeks as I said this. Already, I was crying, and I didn’t know what you did, why you did it. But I did know, didn’t I? I did know why you committed suicide, and that’s why I said it.

“What are you talking about, Hayden? What did you always mean to do?” Jasmine asked, watching me, crumbling to pieces in the middle of the deserted hallway. It was like a dream, where I wanted to run but couldn’t, and didn’t know why. I knew I didn’t want to stay there, I knew I wanted to move, but my feet wouldn’t go, I couldn’t even stand up.

“I always meant to help her.” I brought my knees up, resting my head against them so I was staring at my thighs. “But I never did.”

“Hayden, there’s nothing you could’ve—”

“She’s dead.”

“My dad said when he got to her house her breathing was already—”

“She killed herself. It doesn’t matter. It ended. And it’s never going to change.”

I couldn’t let Jasmine finish. I couldn’t hear about how your breathing had slowed, then stopped, because I already knew that’s probably what happened when you died. I didn’t even want to know what happened anymore, what you did to end your own life. The guilt was swallowing me, encasing me, breaking me, just knowing that you’d done it.

* * * *

My sister, Elle, drove in from college the day of your wake. She came to see your brother, because they were friends when they were in high school, and she was taking me.

“Hayden,” she said, knocking on my bedroom door. She was ready to leave, and I could hear the heels of her shoes clacking on the hardwood floor in the hallway. “We should go now.”

Her voice was soft, like it had been her whole life, unless she was angry. I wanted to reply, tell her that, yes, I was coming in just one minute, but I couldn’t bring myself to speak. I wasn’t ready to leave. I wasn’t ready to see you like that.

“Hayden?” Elle said, again. I still didn’t answer. Instead, I gathered the black skirt Elle gave me into one hand, pulling it from the static of my black tights. Then, I sat down on my bed, kicking my shoes onto the floor. The heels hit each other as they fell, sending one to the left and one in front of my feet.

“Hayden, it’s time to go,” Elle announced from the other side of the door. She sounded like she was hiding a fair amount of impatience. If it hadn’t been the day of your wake, Elle would probably have blown up at me for not answering. “I’m going to have to leave without you, if you don’t hurry up.”

“Wait,” I called out, so suddenly I began to wonder if I had said it out loud or in my head. The sound rang back in my ears. I may not have been ready to see you, but then again, when would I ever truly be? “I—I’ll be right there.”

“Okay,” Elle replied. I could hear the clacking of her heels again, the sound becoming fainter as she walked farther down the hallway, towards the staircase that led down to our foyer.

It was almost nice to have Elle home, except that she had only come home because she heard what had happened to you. Before she had gone to college, Elle and I had been best friends. She was more than a little impatient, and I’d learned to deal with her. I annoyed the hell out of her, and she’d learned to deal with me. I guess we were still best friends, in a weird long distance talk-once-a-week-via-phone-with-bad-reception way, though.

One thing I liked about Elle was that she wasn’t the kind of person who would ask me why I was crying, especially when it was obvious. I didn’t realize how grateful I would be for this trait until we were a few blocks away from the funeral home where your wake was, and I started crying.

She didn’t make me talk about you, like everyone else wanted me to, because she wasn’t that kind of person, either. She didn’t ask if I wanted to go back home, because she knew the answer. I wanted to see you, one last time.

I had stopped crying when Elle pulled into the parking lot of the funeral home. I watched her push the gear shift into Park, open the driver’s side door and step out. A few parking spaces over on the driver’s side, Shannon Piper was stepping one foot out of a little silver car driven by one of the basketball players. There were no cars between Elle’s and the one Shannon was stepping out of, and I watched as the basketball player—Will, I think—also stepped out, and walked around the car to meet her. He took her hand, and helped her up out of the car and onto the pavement in her stiletto heels.

Elle had walked around her own car by now, and tapped on the passenger side window with her knuckles. It made a rapping noise, which made me jump, my gaze shooting from Will, who now had an arm around Shannon’s shoulders, to my sister on the other side of the glass.

“Come on,” Elle said, her voice sounding morphed because of the window between us. “It’s time.”

I took a breath in and went to push the door open, only to realize that Elle had done so already. I set my right foot on the ground, let the breath I had been holding out, and set my left foot beside the right.

“Ready?” Elle questioned, as I used my hands which had been resting on the seat to push myself to a standing position.

I nodded. My throat felt as if it were knotting up, closing in on itself. I wouldn’t have been able to form words if I had to.

“It’ll be okay,” Elle told me. She patted my hand awkwardly. “I promise.”

I tried to keep in pace with my sister, following her heels clacking on the tar of the parking lot from her car to the square, one-floored building about one hundred yards away.

As Elle turned the doorknob on the side entrance to the funeral home, I felt like my internal organs were dancing. I was going to see you again. I was going to see you for the last time.

I stepped over the threshold, noting again how I had left the black heeled shoes Elle had given me on my bedroom floor, and had picked up my mother’s black ballet flat shoes at the last minute before leaving the house. I didn’t feel dressed up enough, sad enough, nervous enough—I didn’t feel enough in general—at least not enough for you.

The line procession for the wake curved around a corner. As it began to move, I could see the picture collages on easel stands, the pedestal holding the guest book. It was all for you, all of you. All these people, in front of me and my sister as well as stepping in the door behind us, and all the people sitting down in chairs in so much sadness, so much silence—they were all there for you.

The line continued to move. We turned the corner completely, walking past more easels, more pictures. So many faces, features, colors and details, all in those pictures. But I couldn’t keep my gaze on all those faces and features, because there you were. The deep mahogany coffin was open, surrounded by so many flowers you very well may have been in a garden. I could see your hands had been folded at your waist, your blonde hair splaying out around your head, making you look completely angelic. You were wearing a summer dress, printed in a bright floral, contrasting with the long woolen jackets and scarves worn by visitors.

The line moved again. The man in front of us had stood from the small prayer space before your casket. It was Elle’s and my turn to say our prayer for you. We knelt down, and I watched as she made the sign of the cross, folding her hands to rest on the wood in front of us, and closing her eyes. I followed her lead, copying her actions.

I wanted to say a good prayer, something that would make up for all the mistakes I had made in not helping you, not accepting you. In the mistake I made in barely even knowing you. But all I could do was peek through my almost-closed eyes at you, positioned to fit perfectly inside the dark mahogany wood, so flawless and still, and let my mind go blank.

The time passed so quickly, I questioned for a few seconds if it had actually happened. Elle stood up from her kneeling position, moving past me and on to expressing her condolences to your family. I followed her, once again just one step behind. Elle had already shook hands with your mother and sister by the time I had stood from my praying. As I took my first step towards your mother, Elle was hugging your brother. As soon as she pulled back from their embrace, tears began to roll down her cheeks. It was almost as if seeing your brother had broken her emotional dam, and everything had come flooding down at once. Her shoulders were shaking as your brother took her into another embrace, rubbing his hand on her lower back in slow circles. It seemed so backwards—she should’ve been the one consoling him, not the other way around.

“I’m sorry,” I saw her say to your brother, but I couldn’t hear it, because it was quiet and garbled by her sobbing. “I love you, Chase.”

“Are you alright, dear?” Quickly, I turned around, and found myself facing your mother. I had been shaking her hand for what seemed like an extensive amount of time.

“Oh! I’m…I’m sorry. For your loss, I’m really sorry,” I told her. I pulled my hand back. “I’m really sorry.”

Your mother gave me a small smile. “Thank you,” she said to me. “It’d mean a lot to her to know that you were here. Really.”

She said it like she knew exactly who I was, like I was actually making a difference by showing up. Maybe, to her, I really was.

I kept my eyes on my feet, watching them shuffle forward awkwardly towards your sister. When I looked up, I realized that we were at exact eye level with each other, despite the fact that I was three years older than she was.

For a few seconds, we exchanged awkward eye contact. She was very pretty, especially for being only thirteen. Reaching out, I took one of her fragile-looking hands in both of mine.

“I’m sorry, Adrienne,” I told her. “I’m so sorry. I hope everything’s okay.”

I looked down at my two hands, engulfing her small, ashen one, the sight something I never thought would happen.

The man standing behind me, sick of waiting for me to move on, put one of his big, rough looking hands on your sister’s shoulder, gave her a sad, slow nod, and walked around me, towards your brother. I was pretty sure you weren’t supposed to do that at a wake, no matter how young a person is.

I dropped your sister’s hand, still looking at her, noticing the dark circles under her eyes, the way her mascara was clumping at the corners of them.

“Thank you, Hayden,” she said to me. “I wish it was.”

In my peripheral vision, I could see the man who had touched Adrienne’s shoulder standing beside your brother, watching him talk to Elle. Your brother was ignoring him, like he wasn’t even there.

“I’ll call you,” Elle was saying to your brother. “Maybe we could, get some coffee together sometime? Will you be home for break next week?”

Your brother nodded. “Sure, that sounds good. I’ll talk to you then.”

“I love you, Chase,” Elle told him. She had been in love with your brother for most of high school, I knew, but this was different. I knew she wanted to be there for him. That’s the kind of person Elle was.

“I love you too,” your brother replied. He bent down and kissed her forehead the slightest bit, like he used to do when they were in high school.

“I’m sorry about everything that’s happened. I really am.” I watched her, slowly snaking back towards all those easels, all those pictures. I had almost forgotten how much she loved your brother.

I looked at him, obviously uncomfortable in a black suit and tie, his hair swept the wrong way, so it stuck up a little. His eyes were following my sister, as she made her way through the crowd of people, steadily walking in and out, to the door.

“I’m sorry, Chase,” I told him. Though, from the look in his eyes, I knew it hardly mattered. He was letting her go again, the only person who could make him stop hurting.

Elle.

Poem for Newspaper....

What should I submit for newspaper? One of these two? Or do they suck?

1. This one's for you, Dan. As many of them are. This is how much you meant to me.
--------
Somewhere, somehow
Someone is there for her
Lost, they maybe are
Somewhere, they’ll forever be.

Where? she thinks
For a look around gives nothing.

Alone, she cries,
An act of desperation waiting to consume
Her very soul burned through
A black hole, the solar system of her heart.

Somewhere, somehow
Someone finds her
How long, she asks, did it take?
What, someone asks,
To figure out you love me?

Someone asks no questions, gives no answers
She is okay, without answers
Love is okay, without answers.

She is not she any longer
She, she is me.
Loved, and wanted.

And as he places a flower gently in my hair
I smile
Because for the first time
I’ve found life.

OR 2. This one's for you, too. Taking the Terra Nova testing the day after you broke up with me was kinda stressful.
---------------
Forever, it seems
There is silence.
So much time is given
So little is needed.
For one, maybe some,
Pure bitter, breaking
Numbness, senseless
Encases.
Is there nothing more
Than this?
The feeling that seems
Not to be doubt
But beyond.
For one, maybe many,
Nothing goes on
Blank empty life
Each slight turn of paper
Every tap of a foot
Or fingertip upon the floor
Loud, amplified
Silence, it hurts, one says
Silence,
Sometimes speaks it all.

"For Everything He Gave". Updated.

Inside the church, it was silent. I watched over my shoulder as people filed in, everyone easily recognizable from somewhere, somewhere in that tiny town we all called home. But these people weren’t the people I saw every day, walking to school, shopping for groceries in the Minimart, pushing their way from class to class. These people were dark, sad versions of the friends I had, like shadows or ghosts, the life all but sucked out of them.
The church was big, made of those weird yellow bricks that seem to turn up out of nowhere at construction sites. Inside, it could have been mistaken for any 20th century church: dark wood paneling the walls and fake marble tiles making up the floor. When I was really young, maybe four or five, Father Joseph used to let me and the other four or five year olds run up and down the aisle before mass began. That’s how our town was, that close. Even now, looking around the room, I could point out those four and five year olds—now fifteen and sixteen—that I used to run around with. Even on that day, eleven years later.
For many, it was plainly and simply Thursday. It was ordinary, a day that would come and pass with the usual commotion of work or school. But for us, in our little town that had always been so close, it was so much more.
Beside me, Amanda Locke was sitting with her head resting against her arms, folded across the hard wood at the side of the pew. Her legs were crossed, her foot tapping slowly to her own silent rhythm.
“Amanda,” I whispered, reaching out to tap her shoulder. After a few seconds, she sat up straight in the pew, turning to look at me. She wasn’t saying anything and I knew she wouldn’t, not then, so I did. “I’m so sorry.”
It was then the organ music began to rise, and the doors at the back of the church swung open to reveal four men, each holding a corner of a deep mahogany coffin. The man in front on the left, I recognized immediately. I knew Amanda did, too. I felt her tense beside me, her breath shaking as she met the gaze of the man. He was her father, after all, and inside that mahogany casket was the body of his son.

* * * *

The Locke’s had lived on the same street as my family for six years. We lived in one of those neighborhoods that used to be super prestigious, but kind of broke down over time. Now, it was filled with two dozen little ranch style houses, with three or four of the giant Victorian mansions left. I only knew one family who lived in one of those houses, and that was the Locke’s.
I always wondered if they were lonely in that house. They didn’t have a big family, and without all of them home, it had to feel so empty. For so long, in that big empty house, it had been Amanda, her parents and her brother, older by one year, Justin. Justin Locke, with his clear blue eyes and smile that could light up a room. You always knew when you were with Justin. There was something about him—a glow, maybe—that made it impossible not to know.
His family thought it would be sad to see him off to college in two years, when he would be eighteen. But they thought that he’d always come back. They thought he’d accomplish everything, every dream that had ever come to him—maybe he would have. They never thought this would happen. They never thought that he’d leave them, so alone in that big empty house. At least, they never thought it would happen like this.

* * * *

“Courtney.” The music was rising again, the men positioned at the corners of the casket. I followed the deep color of the wood, as the men began to move the casket, Mr. Locke still in the front, on the left. I tried hard, so hard to think of Justin’s face. It was so familiar, a face I had seen every day for almost six years, yet I couldn’t remember.
All I could picture was him lying so still inside that box. That box that must have seemed so small, so different from that big house. That house that would be so empty without him.
“Courtney.” The music was at its apex, the notes flowing, flowing. It was soft, melancholic, but still it seemed so loud as it echoed all around. “Courtney.”
I looked to the side of me, at Amanda. The organ was beginning to fade, and as the doors swung shut behind her father and those three other men, I heard her whisper my name.
“Look.” She was pointing to the front of the church, at the pulpit facing the congregation. There, shuffling papers nervously, was my younger sister, Rainer.
With a shaking hand, she reached out and tapped the tiny microphone on the pulpit.
“H-hi,” she said, her lips close to the microphone. Slowly, people who had not yet noticed her turned to face the front of the church once again. “I’m…Rainer Whitaker.”
Rainer bit her bottom lip, struggling, I knew, with the words. Even when they were written down, she could never quite seem to be comfortable saying them.
“How many of you have ever wanted something? I mean, anything,” she asked, her eyes darting from the papers in front of her, to the people all around. People began raising hands, slowly though, as if admitting to something they shouldn’t have been doing. “Alright,” Rainer said, once it seemed as if everyone who was willing to contribute had a hand raised. Quickly, the hands went down.
“How many of you have ever wanted something for someone else?” she asked. A few hands went up, then a few more. Not many people seemed to understand what she was trying to say—maybe they didn’t want to. After twenty seconds or so, instead of dismissing the hands again, Rainer raised her own. “I want a lot of things, I mean, who doesn’t?”
A few “yeahs” and “mhms” echoed from the congregation. After a few seconds, though, it was silent.
“I know someone else who would want something, something not for himself, but for everyone else. For all of you,” Rainer continued, her hand still raised. No one else dared to lower their hand either. “Justin Locke was a special person. He touched all of our hearts, and if you don’t feel that way then I guess you’re heartless.”
Beside me, I could feel Amanda relax. She was looking up at Rainer, her eyes wide, like a little kid seeing magic tricks being done for the first time. Rainer then brought her hand back down, Amanda watching intently. The others followed her lead. Again, there was silence.
“Justin loved so many people, and I know that you all love him,” Rainer said, her voice ringing off the high cathedral ceilings. “He was so good to me, as a girlfriend. He was so good to everyone. None of us wanted this to happen, not to Justin. I didn’t know him well, not as well as many of you sitting here today, but I do know one thing, and I hope you do, too: Justin would never want this to hurt you.”
And with those words, my sister, fifteen years old, stepped down from the pulpit, papers clutched in her hand as cheers broke out, echoing all around.
I turned to look at Amanda again, and saw on her face the only assurance I needed to make sure she would be okay. As she clapped along with all those people—for my little sister, the girl who Justin had loved so much—she was smiling, her head tilted up towards the peaked ceiling.
I love you, I saw her mouth to the sky. Her expression was soft.
“He’ll wait for you,” I whispered, after a few seconds of simply watching her wistful face. She was almost unmoving, as if any sudden movement might scare his love away.
“I know,” Amanda replied, turning to look at me. “He always has.”
It’d be hard, harder than anything she’d ever had to go through before, but she would fight through. After all, that was what Justin would’ve wanted.

* * * *

I could imagine his blue eyes sparkling, lighting up everything and everyone in heaven. He’d be a star, the brightest in the sky.
Slowly, it came back to me. Finally, I could remember what he had been for so long, all that time before the heart attack had taken his life. I could feel it, his glow.
I knew he could hear Amanda. I knew he’d been listening, listening for the moment she needed him. And I knew exactly what he would say.
I love you, too, he’d whisper, smiling, always smiling. For everything you gave.

English Short Story.

Ok, so i haven't even read this over, so sorry for the following sucky story. :]

“Cancer”. The word rolled off the doctor’s tongue unsympathetically. A cold shiver ran down my spine. In that moment, time came to a halt. I felt as if I couldn’t breathe, as if I was falling, and would never stop.

“Mr. Sanders,” the doctor began again, “You have pancreatic cancer, which has spread to your kidneys.” A tear ran down my face, glistening in the bright light of the white room. My father, not surprisingly, remained strong.

“I am so very sorry Mr. Sanders; there is nothing we can do. We didn’t catch the cancer early enough.” The falling sensation increases as I start to feel dizzy.

“You have about 3 and a half months to live”. The falling stopped; I had slammed into the ground of the seemingly endless pit. Tears are streaming down my face, but I didn’t noticed. I couldn’t feel anything, my body was numb.

My father looked at the doctor with a straight face, no words escaping his relaxed mouth. After a few minutes of silence, my father asks, “So Doc, if there is nothing you can do, what can I do?” “Well,” replied the doctor, “The best we can do is recommend ways to make your home more comfortable, especially when your cancer worsens. We recommend you have a registered nurse stop by the house every so often to check on you.”

At this, my father stood, shook the doctor’s hand and said thank you. He looked at me, silent with tears streaming down my face. “Don’t worry Maddie, it will be alright” he said softly. He helped me out of the chair I was sitting in, whispering “It will be ok” in my ear. We slowly made it back to the car.

The half hour car ride home was quiet. I was thinking, and I suppose he was too. He has always been simple man, never saying more than he needed to. I wonder if that was what led to my parents’ divorce. My mother moved to Brooksville, while my father stayed in Oakdale. They live about 40 minutes away from each other, but my school is in between. I shuffle between my mother’s and father’s house every week, and alternate summers. It just so happened that this summer I was spending with my dad.

When we arrived home, we remained in the car, silent. After a while, he turned the car off and turned to me. “Maddie, we all have to… pass sometime.” he said. “Don’t worry, I will be ok.” I looked at him and said “Dad, you’re dying of cancer. Everything is not ok.” My dad looked at me straight in the eyes, giving me the look that let me know that he was about to say something important. “Look Maddie, we can be sad and cry about my cancer, or we can have the best three and a half months we can. I choose the second option, and I hope you do too.” I had to smile at this, at how positive a person can be after being told their dying of cancer. “I hope I do too.” I say. My dad and I got out of the car, and started to walk into the house. We talked for another two hours before we called my mom.

bbbb

“Dad, the nurse is here!” I shouted, as I opened the door to my dad’s house. “Hello Nancy, how are you?” I say, trying to sound as positive as possible. My dad was approaching the 3 and a half mark of his cancer. He had become much weaker, mostly sleeping in the hospital bed the nurse had set up. He was still happy though, always telling jokes and making me laugh.

“I’m doing well, but how is your dad?” Nancy replied. “Same as he was yesterday.” I answered “He’s still going strong.” At this, Nancy smiled, saying “Excellent” numerous times as she walked down into the hallway. My dad would never let me be in the room when the nurse was checking on him. He didn’t want me to worry about him, and I tried not to.

After about a half hour, Nancy walked out of the room. “Amazingly, he seems to be getting better. Good work Maddie.” she said as she grabbed her equipment. I’ll be back again in a couple of days, and remember call me if he gets worse.” I walked into his room and gave him a high five. “I passed again Maddie,” he said as he smiled.

After a week of getting better, his health started to slowly decline. He lost a lot of energy, and was sleeping a lot more. When I walked into his room, he looked at me, and said “Call your mother. You need someone else to take care of you.” “But Dad,” I started to protest, “I am not leaving you. Can I at least ask her to come here?” My dad looked at me doubtfully. “Irene would never do that.” “Well, I’m still asking” I replied. And to me and my father’s surprise, my mother agreed to come.

bbbb

I was woken by at 2 am by the sound of an ambulance pulling up to my house. I sprung out of bed and ran to my father’s room. My mom was there, helping my father get comfortable. “The nurse suggested he go stay in the hospital a couple days ago. Maddie, I’m sorry, but he’s getting worse.” I looked at my dad, who looked at me. For the first time, I saw true pain on his face. “Alright” I said, helping my mom pack for the hospital.

A few weeks after, my father died. He went peacefully, with my mother and I by his side. At his funeral, I delivered the eulogy.

“I remember the day when we learned he had cancer” I began. “He was remarkably strong and positive, and he remained that way until he passed.” I was silent for a moment, thinking about all the memories from the past months. “My father was given three and a half months to live. He made it to four months and twelve days, and I am proud of him.” I stepped down from the podium and turned to go back to my seat. Walking back to the church pew, I looked up, smiled, and said “four months and twelve days.”

BLahhh

Why:

I need to know why

you hate me

your never there

you despise me

you don't care

I need to know why

You said you would be here

but you were not

you are not

and you will never be

I need to know why

you said you cared

when all you wanted

was to see me cry

Im dying inside

or whatever is left of me

that you can't see

but you hurt so bad

thing i found on my computer... enjoy

invisible

not seen

there yet not

in between

speaking

no one hears

crying

can't see the tears

lost all memory

erased from mind

not there anymore

your blind

my flags at half mast

ive done all i can

i surrender