His Deepest Secret

Shock and anger coursed through her veins and the moment was shattered. Charlotte walked around him and grabbed her bag and cell phone.

"Fuck." That was the only word that came out of Anderson's mouth, the only response his brain could force his mouth to say.

Anderson stared at the wall where Charlotte was leaning only moments ago where he pressed his lips upon hers. Suddenly, he turned around and looked directly into Charlotte's eyes. "That was a huge fucking mistake." His voice came out differently. His eyes were dark. "You know I can't fucking stand you, I hate you so much."

"Yeah? I hate you, too. But you do not see me trying to pull moves on you, Anderson!" Despite being angry, Charlotte was not going to let herself get loud. She knew his parents were down the hall. "Why did you do it?" she demanded.

"Why did I do it? Who the hell fucking knows?"

"Are you retarded or something? You would know, so don't give me that stupid response." She looked directly into his eyes with a challenging expression on her face.

"It doesn't matter. What does is that you kissed back, and here you are getting angry with me." Anderson knew he was twisting it around.

"Are you serious? You've got to be kidding. I'm not answering that. I asked you first. Why did you kiss me? You say you hate me one moment, then the next minute, your lips are pressed against mine. You even told me I was not pretty enough for anybody. What the hell is wrong with you? Charlotte asked, standing in the middle of the room, glaring into his eyes.

"Then you must be dumber than shit for kissing a guy back who thinks you're ugly and worthless," Anderson answered, laughing crudely. As he said those words, regret filled up inside of his heart.

Charlotte opened her mouth to say something, but no words could transform her lips and urge her tongue to form words her vocal cords would produce.

After a minute of silence, she whispered, "What do you want from me? Really?"

He knew what he had to do and say to her.

Anderson walked towards the center of the room, stopping when his body was close to hers. He raised his hand gently and cupped the side of her face. As he stared directly into her eyes, he whispered, quoting her earlier words,"I want absolutely nothing from you."

Charlotte looked at him with a shocked expression. He walked away, and she snapped out of it. She grabbed her bag, shoving her homework and everything else inside of it. Without a word, she quietly opened his bedroom door, walked down the hallway and stairs, opened his front door, and left.

Anderson went to his window and opened the blinds enough for him to be able to see out of. A slither of moonlight sneaked into his room as he peeked out his window. His eyes saw Charlotte walking down the driveway and heading home.

He wanted to let her walk home so she would completely hate him. It would cover up the biggest mistake he simply made only ten minutes ago. He slipped. He wants love so badly, but cannot allow himself to experience it, his rational side making sure of it.

He has to beat something first. He has to beat the cancer inflicting his body.

Yet, despite all of this, he knew that he should never let a girl walk home, especially at three in the morning. It was not only wrong, but dangerous. And believe it or not, Anderson was not that cruel.

He made a decision.

He grabbed his keys off of his jacket on the bed, quietly went down the stairs, and ran outside to his truck. He got in and shut the door. After putting it in reverse, he backed out of his driveway, slammed it into drive and pressed on the gas.

Surprisingly, the small, fragile teenage girl had already made it halfway down the block.

Once he spotted her, he pulled over to the curb and got out.

"Hey!" Anderson called, running up to her. "I can't let you walk home. I'm not that fucked up. Get in?"

Slowly, she looked up at him. Her face had tears slowly making their way down her soft cheeks. Anderson was shocked once his eyes laid upon her clear blue ones that were filles up with more teara to come.

"Oh fuck. . ."

Charlotte walked around him and to his truck, which she unhappily got into.

Anderson was unsure of what to say, so he did not say anything at all. He walked to his truck, resisting the urge to wipe the tears off of her face. It would only make matters worse.

His face was pale, his hands cold.

Her face was pink, her hands were shaking.

A light patter began to hit the windshield. Small raindrops began drizzling onto the glass.

Anderson headed in the direction of her house.

Tonight was the worst night for both of them.

Fifteen minutes passed. A truck door opened, then shut, announcing the emptiness of the passenger seat.

Eyes remained focused ahead. Control was important. Desires were simply that. . . Desires. They were not needs. They could be- would be- overlooked.

A front door opened and shut.

Loneliness creeped its way through the seams of the metal of the truck, raising into the air of the closed in cab of the truck, invisible. Its movement was like that of smoke, its effect as hurtful as smoke.

Anderson leaned forward and pressed his forehead against the steering wheel. He stared into nothingness.

The words, "What did I just do:" filled his mind.

"Fuck," he whispered.

Every problem that he was trying to ignore was ignited by the events of today.

Chemotherapy would begin tomorrow. No more highschool,. No more Anderson Wailey; he would disappear.

In his place will be Anderson, hairless, joyless, loveless. . . Hopeless.

Hope.

Without it, he'd be nothing.

Well. . . He already is nothing.

Nothing but an empty body. Nothing but an already dead soul waiting for his body to pass on.

40% chance of living.

Yeah. . .

Okay. . .

His face lifted up with tears on it to look once more at the house Charlotte lived in.

It's all for the best. You can't have her. You don't deserveher.

With that last thought, Anderson drove off.

---

Charlotte slept in, waking up at the very last moment that she had to. In twenty minutes, she was dressed and out the door, carrying a light umbrella to stay dry as she walked down the sidewalks leading to her school.

She was forcing her mind to shut up. She did not want to think. She did not want to remember.

Her steps became faster, splashing a little bit of water onto her shoes when they stepped a little too hard in the small puddles.

Once she arrived, she went to buy a muffin at the student store that ASB ran. In the middle of the lunch tables, she sat, holding an umbrella as she ate small forkfuls of muffin.

---

He woke up at four in the morning to the sound of his mother's voice.

"Anderson," she said weakly. Today was the day. "Anderson?"

He stirred. Slowly, his body understood that it was time to tell his mind to wake up.

"Hunny," she rested a hand on his shoulder and shook it gently.

Anderson's head lifted up from his pillow to look at her. His sleepy eyes barely opened wide enough to see the color of his eyes.

Once he saw the look on her face, he knew. Immediately, his body sunk down, knowing what was to come.

"Get dressed hun."

She left the room as Anderson slowly got up and walked into his bathroom. When he turned on the bathroom light, his eyes shut tightly to protect itself from the bright light. Hesitantly, they opened more as they adapted to the bright streams of light.

He looked up in the mirror. His hair was shaggy, blonde, soft. His eyebrows a slight shade darker. It'd be gone.

In ten minutes, Anderson was dressed, distressed, and upset. But he would not show it today. No. . . he'd be strong for his parents. He'd give them hope-false hope-but hope, nonetheless.

His father's eyes had bags under them. His mother's hair was imperfect. They both mustered up the best smile that they could as the three walked out into the cold, dark morning.

On to the hospital.

On to the medicine that would do more harm than good to his body.

He wasn't stupid.

He wasn't naive enough to have hope.

He already knew he had given up.
He knew many people in his life who had cancer. He knew many people who did not survive it, despite their 60/40, 30/70, and 80/20 percent chances. He knew too many.

But he'd go through everything. . . for his parents.

---

Charlotte sat quietly at lunch. Her eyes kept glancing over to the table Anderson usually was at. Today, he wasn't there. Her mind was so caught up in her thoughts, caught up in her problems, caught up in her memories.

---

At six o' clock, when most teenagers were just waking up for school, Anderson was sitting in a hospital chair, IVs in his arm, pumping liquids into his veins.

His eyes were empty. The doctor explained all the new medicine he would have to take, the aftermath of chemotherapy, the chance of survival it would give him, and the diet Anderson would now be taking.

Life was just grand.

---

Fifth period came. No sign of Anderson.

Okay. . .

He is sick, probably?

Who cares?

---

Three P.M., and Anderson was throwing up into a toilet, clutching the lid as his body struggled to stop shaking.

"Drink more water," his father insisted, sitting beside him, holding his tears back in order to be strong for his son.

Anderson took a few drinks of water.

Up came more vomit. . .

---

Hatred filled her gut as she walked home. Tomorrow would be another horrible day.

He would be back, and it will be even worse than before after what happened the previous night.

---

Dread filled her gut.
Dread filled his heart.

Tomorrow. . .

Tomorrow would be just another day to her.

For Anderson, tomorrow would be. . .

Nothing.

Nothing without. . .

Hope.