Guillain–Barré
Her.
I live in a dark, depressing world.
We all do, really. Humanity’s needle burrows itself deep into the crook of your arm and sucks the lifeblood right out of you. Drop by drop, year by year. The mundane takes over, even though you know you’re dying, and you become an empty, standardized shell of a human; carted from one room to the other while a monotonous voice drawls, “next.” We are all doomed to live our days on repeat. We go through the motions but never really live. It was in the midst of this dark, depressing world, barely entering the years marking twenty, that I was graced with a small beacon of glowing light.
She was beautiful.
I was in awe of her – though she carried with her the body of one of those monogamous beings, the flesh was only a manifestation that we all must bear. She walked with such a grace and confidence that shone through the impermeable “self,” through the dreary world’s atmosphere; and upon gazing at her, I knew this light came from her soul. She was different.
Every day I saw her – spending weeks catching glimpses of her through the monochrome tint of the everyday. But I couldn’t move, though I wanted nothing more than to just speak to her. I saw that though this world was one of habit, she broke away from the expected conformity and social norms. She liked to spend time with nature. She got lost in novels. She smiled and strangers and God, when she smiled, her halo shone brightest. One day she even smiled at me. I didn’t smile back, or rather, I couldn’t. I was frozen by reality again. My heart smiled, though. I think she knew.
Eventually, we did end up talking. She came to visit me every day. She was every bit as eloquent and intelligent and beautiful as I had imagined her to be. She told me about her life, and how she wanted to do everything. She wanted to see the world. I knew she would; she was the type of person to live life to the fullest. She saw beauty in everything, and I loved that about her. She deserved to see everything she wanted to – I think she was one of the only people in this world that would actually find meaning in life and simplistic everyday places. She appreciated life even though, like all of us, she was dying. I fell for her.
Her visits were the only thing that I looked forward to in the day for a while. Nothing else was as bright as her. She proved me wrong on that, though. She taught me how to look at what you were given, the simple, the mundane, the dreary, and turn around to make it something worth appreciating. For the first time in a long time, I felt alive. She made me feel alive.
She died.
My nurse came to tell me that she had slipped into a deteriorating state. My muscles couldn't move, as always. I had to be wheeled to her. I saw her lying, looking peaceful, a small smile still gracing her pink lips as the heart monitor slowly beeped. Only a few more hours left, they said. The chemo didn’t work, they said. I tried to move my hand to touch hers, but my weak fingers only trembled. Hot, furious tears slipped down my cheeks and I let out a pathetic sob. The nurse must have noticed, because she walked over and gently placed my hand on top of hers, and curled my fingers underneath her palm. My hands were numb, but she felt warm to me. I still cried. I was with her until the end.
A year later, while her treatment failed, mine succeeded. I could walk again. I could feel again. Relapses were unlikely is what I was told, and they would most likely never see me again. I’d give it up to be back with her again. I knew she wouldn’t want that though.
Instead, I saw the world. All of it.
We all do, really. Humanity’s needle burrows itself deep into the crook of your arm and sucks the lifeblood right out of you. Drop by drop, year by year. The mundane takes over, even though you know you’re dying, and you become an empty, standardized shell of a human; carted from one room to the other while a monotonous voice drawls, “next.” We are all doomed to live our days on repeat. We go through the motions but never really live. It was in the midst of this dark, depressing world, barely entering the years marking twenty, that I was graced with a small beacon of glowing light.
She was beautiful.
I was in awe of her – though she carried with her the body of one of those monogamous beings, the flesh was only a manifestation that we all must bear. She walked with such a grace and confidence that shone through the impermeable “self,” through the dreary world’s atmosphere; and upon gazing at her, I knew this light came from her soul. She was different.
Every day I saw her – spending weeks catching glimpses of her through the monochrome tint of the everyday. But I couldn’t move, though I wanted nothing more than to just speak to her. I saw that though this world was one of habit, she broke away from the expected conformity and social norms. She liked to spend time with nature. She got lost in novels. She smiled and strangers and God, when she smiled, her halo shone brightest. One day she even smiled at me. I didn’t smile back, or rather, I couldn’t. I was frozen by reality again. My heart smiled, though. I think she knew.
Eventually, we did end up talking. She came to visit me every day. She was every bit as eloquent and intelligent and beautiful as I had imagined her to be. She told me about her life, and how she wanted to do everything. She wanted to see the world. I knew she would; she was the type of person to live life to the fullest. She saw beauty in everything, and I loved that about her. She deserved to see everything she wanted to – I think she was one of the only people in this world that would actually find meaning in life and simplistic everyday places. She appreciated life even though, like all of us, she was dying. I fell for her.
Her visits were the only thing that I looked forward to in the day for a while. Nothing else was as bright as her. She proved me wrong on that, though. She taught me how to look at what you were given, the simple, the mundane, the dreary, and turn around to make it something worth appreciating. For the first time in a long time, I felt alive. She made me feel alive.
She died.
My nurse came to tell me that she had slipped into a deteriorating state. My muscles couldn't move, as always. I had to be wheeled to her. I saw her lying, looking peaceful, a small smile still gracing her pink lips as the heart monitor slowly beeped. Only a few more hours left, they said. The chemo didn’t work, they said. I tried to move my hand to touch hers, but my weak fingers only trembled. Hot, furious tears slipped down my cheeks and I let out a pathetic sob. The nurse must have noticed, because she walked over and gently placed my hand on top of hers, and curled my fingers underneath her palm. My hands were numb, but she felt warm to me. I still cried. I was with her until the end.
A year later, while her treatment failed, mine succeeded. I could walk again. I could feel again. Relapses were unlikely is what I was told, and they would most likely never see me again. I’d give it up to be back with her again. I knew she wouldn’t want that though.
Instead, I saw the world. All of it.
♠ ♠ ♠
I usually am really dialogue-heavy when I write, and rely on it to tell my stories. I wanted to do something with little to no dialogue and see how I did. Constructive criticism is welcomed and greatly appreciated.