Dying of the Light

This was the most difficult decision I’d ever had to make, certainly, and it was likely to be the hardest one ever.

At first, what Molly and I had, it was great. We were good friends, and if I liked to think about being more, I knew I’d never act on it.

But then I had to go and fall in love with her. Stupid, stupid.

And I realized that I can’t have her returning the feeling. I can’t. She’ll already be upset enough when I die, and I’m getting weaker. Every goddamn day I feel just a little sicker. I couldn’t put her through that.

So this had to stop. I knew that if I told her my reasons, she would never listen. She was too loyal, too strong, for that. She wouldn’t care about protecting herself. She wouldn’t slow down long enough to think about what it would be like for her when I die. So I had to think of it for her, and I couldn’t tell her that I was going to do it.

But what was a little pain, the pain of having a friend suddenly not so friendly, compared to what it would be like for her later if this didn’t stop?

So I would have to be cold. I would politely refuse when she tried to make plans with me, and I wouldn’t let her see how much it hurt me.

At first, it was alright. Molly came up to me in English class first thing in the morning, and started chattering away about a museum that was opening a few towns over- she wanted to check it out, and she wanted me to come.

“Sorry, Molly, but I can’t.” I didn’t look at her. I couldn’t, or I would break and change my mind.

She didn’t say anything for a few long seconds, before saying, “Oh, well, alright, then. I’ll wait until you’re free. Maybe next weekend?”

“I can’t, Molly.” I finally made myself look at her, forcing my expression into the same one I gave my nurses when they tried to sympathize- cold and unwelcoming. She froze up and stared hard at her desk. I got the feeling that she was fighting tears. My resolve wavered, and I forced my eyes away again.

After that first time, it should have gotten easier to refuse her. But every time she approached me with another suggestion, I ached even more to accept, to have just one more evening with her. But this was for her own good, so I could do it, barely.

The very worst conversation came the next Wednesday. She came up to me after class and said, “I know what you’re doing, and it has to stop.” I blushed and didn’t answer, which she obviously took as an admission of guilt. “You’re pushing me away again. I thought we’d settled this. I’m here for you, and I’m not going anywhere. I know what I’m doing, Ash.”

“Molly, it’s not like that,” I said, even though it was. How could she know so much and still not understand? I was no good for her. “I just realized that we don’t have anything in common. I’m surprised we were able to see each other for as long as we did without this boredom coming sooner.”

“You… I bore you?” she whispered, wrapping her one arm across her stomach as if to hold herself together. I saw the change in her eyes. She wasn’t going to fight to stay by me any longer. She walked away, then ran down the hallway, colliding into several people. And I felt some part of me wither away.

After a that, she stopped coming to me. She sat in her old seat next to Bennet, and she seemed to have shrunken into herself. She didn’t look so polished anymore, or so happy. Ben glared harder at me than ever, and I knew he blamed me. I did, too, but it was still better this way. What was this pain, compared to the pain she’d feel once I was dead?

One day, Fletcher caught up to me in the hallway after school, grabbing my sleeve and pulling me out of the building, then shoving me furiously onto the bench where Ben and Molly always ate lunch.

“You need to get over yourself.” I looked up at him, took in the fury that was rolling off of him in waves.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Have you seen Molly? She’s not herself. She’s not eating, and she doesn’t talk. It’s like someone stole her and left us with an empty body. And it’s your fault.” Fletcher’s fists clenched and it was obvious he was holding himself back from punching me. I wished he would- it would have been better than having to listen to this. His words were poison.

“I can’t. I’m sorry. This is for the best. I can’t let her get any closer to me. I’m going to die, and imagine how she’ll feel then.” This argument came automatically now. I repeated it to myself every time I saw her or thought of her, a constant refrain against my growing need to talk to her, just once.

Fletcher grimaced. “You just don’t get it, do you?” We stared at each other for a minute, neither of us moving, and then punched me in the face. “That was for coming here.” He punched me again, in the stomach this time, and said, “that was for making my little sister fall in love with a dying boy.” And again. “That was for being fool enough not to take every moment you can get with her.

I sat still for a moment, stunned, then slowly nodded. “I deserved that.”

“Damn right you did. Now, go make up with her. If you don’t, you’ll- she’ll- regret it forever. You’d better be ready to grovel,” Fletcher warned, then strode off.

I didn’t move for a long time. She wasn’t eating? And he said… he’d said she loved me.

Well, that changed things. I felt awful, and not just because of those punches. It was already too late. No matter what I did, I was going to hurt her.

I ran to my car and broke the speed limit on the way to her house. My tires squealed as I whipped into her driveway, and I saw her head peek out the blinds, her eyes shocked as she took me in.

It was all I could do not to run up to her house and barge in. Instead, I slowly walked up the driveway and calmly knocked on the door. She took her good sweet time about answering, so long that for an awful second I thought she would ignore me.

But the door finally opened. I took one look at her face and froze up again. She did look awful. I’d been doing my best to avoid looking at her these past couple of weeks- I was no masochist. So I hadn’t seen this.

She was unnaturally pale and had dark purple smudges under her eyes. Her hair hung flatly, as if she just didn’t care anymore. Her eyes were guarded. “Why are you here?”

“I miss you, Mols,” I choked out, still staring at her. She looked sicker than I felt.

“No, you don’t,” she replied woodenly. “You don’t miss me at all. I bore you.” She started to shut the door, but I stopped it.

It looked like Fletcher was right, I would have to grovel.