Bustichia
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Prologue
My cough was getting worse every day. By the time we made the decision, just breathing felt like sucking in through a straw. Even a single minor fit meant a trip to the emergency room, and neither of us could handle it more. We had different reasons, of course, but the decision itself was mutual.
For me, it was simply the pain. Each day, I lived in consistent agony. I couldn't go to school anymore, and what few friends I had rarely came to visit. I read what material I did receive, but with all the time on my hands, it was done quickly, and I found myself back in never-ending boredom. It was horrid, and I just wanted it to end.
As for my mother, I was only one child out of five. She did have my dad to help her out, but it wasn't easy. They all had their own issues which, though less dangerous than mine, were more immediate and important to each of them personally. I was sick for a long time, so I can't really blame any of them. After a while, the phrase "terminal illness" hardly means anything, and life just goes on around you.
That's when the doctor came. He said they had this thing they could do. Normally, it would be really expensive, he said, but he was willing to do it for me out of his own pocket. He never really explained why, but we didn't care. It was a chance. An extremely slim one, but a chance nonetheless. We jumped at it. He told us what to do to prepare, where to go and when, and then left. The doctor disappeared after that, and we didn't hear from him again until the day it was set to go down, three weeks later.
My mother and I, confined to a wheelchair as I was, showed up at the hospital counter fifteen minutes early. We signed in and she took a seat. Knowing this would be our last conversation, we tried to share a few last words.
"Mom, I-" I started, but she shushed me.
"I just want to say, Florence, that I-I really love you, you know? I d-don't think I've really told you that enough, or something. I don't want you to go in there scared or nervous, honey. Just... just get it done. I'll be right here when you come out. Or, I'll try to be. No, definitely."
I would've kissed her if I could get out of the chair, but as it was, the doctor came out and called my name. I rolled over to him, stealing one last glance at my mom. I don't think I'll ever forget that sight of her hunched over, hands in her face, shaking uncontrollably. Whether she was actually crying or not, I don't know, but she was certainly at the verge of tears if not. I looked away and continued through the doorway, the doctor pushing my chair now.
He led me to a pod-shaped machine, jutting out of a wall awkwardly. That was what could possibly save my life; or rather, extend it so someone could find a cure for my disease. For as important as what I was doing was, this whole event went by fairly quickly. The doctor helped me to climb into the machine and closed the lid of the pod. The last sensation I felt was the pod being lifted up into the wall, and a cold fog touching my skin, filling my lungs, weakening my eyes.
My name is Florence Middington, age 15 in the year 2013. I'm an average height brunette with average looks. I'm interested in geology. And this is my story, as much as it might seem it should end here.
< Message edited by Bustichia -- 5/17/2013 23:48:25 >
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