World So Cold

Scowling at my reflection in the mirror, I rubbed my hollow cheeks, willing them to be full again. I attempted a half-hearted smile, and winced at the forced quality of it, and how it did nothing to brighten the gloomy aura of the face staring back. Pushing a few strands of hair away, I tried to imagine myself as I had once been. Health was something I once had taken for granted, and now I longed for its return.

I heard a gasp come from my door and I looked up to see my mom in the doorway, looking stricken. I immediately put my mirror down guiltily. “Mommy.” I said quietly, looking into her eyes.

She came and sat down beside my bed. “It’s going to be alright, doll. You’ll see.” She told me encouragingly, placing her hands on my bed.

I plastered a smile on my face and nodded. I stayed silent for a while, debating asking what I had on my mind. “Mom?” I asked, making sure I got her attention. Once I got my conformation in the form of a nod, I plowed on. “I feel really good today… Could I go to school today? Please?”

The way mom looked at me, I knew the answer, and I swallowed the lump in my throat. I smiled. “That’s okay mom. I’ll just have Sheyenne help me with my math when she get’s home. Don’t worry about it.”

The relief that showed on my mom’s face was the reason I always hid my disappointment. I didn’t want to stress my poor mother out any more than she already was. Guilt always gnawed at me knowing that she worried herself over me. She didn’t deserve to have to deal with my problems all the time.

I knew exactly why I was sick. God hates me. It sounds foolish, but when you can’t go to school because you’re too sick, you have a lot of time to think about these things. You also tend to think about it a lot when you know you’re time on earth could be very limited. I have cancer because I’m a bad person. I worry my mom. I put stress on her by wanting to go to school, and asking to go every single day. And being gay is a sin. Therefore, God and I are apparently not on very good terms.

Once mom left my room, I picked up the mirror again and whimpered, looking into it. I trained myself not to cry, looking at my pasty white complexion and gaunt features. At least they left my hair. That’s what everyone said after I underwent treatment. But all I really wanted was my healthy appearance. Hair is relative. I could’ve worn a wig, or waited for it to come back. But nothing could help the ugly effect cancer had on my body.

I put my mirror down and rolled over in bed, hugging my pillow. I bit back any sobs that tried to force their way through my throat. Crying, I had learned, only drained a lot of my energy and no benefits. And energy was something I could not waste. I had very little of it.

The last thought that drifted through my mind before sleep caught up to me was this- “How much time do I have?”