Tomorrow May Never Come

But Sometimes... It's Hard.

Tissues had always wondered what a normal life was like. He had lived one for his first ten years of existence, but recalling those memories sapped precious energy, so he remained content with the faint happiness he felt from the mere thought of the past.

But despite that, he was still rather bitter in the present. There was no escaping from society at large. He'd see people outside carefree, usually taking a walk or chatting with friends. On TV people would do crazy stunts, and while admittedly some of those feats were impossible for even a healthy human, Tissues couldn't even make a cup of tea without a 20-minute nap afterward.

Not that he hadn't tried to act normal. He'd done loads of that when he was first diagnosed as terminally ill some twenty years prior. But collapse after collapse, public humiliation after public humiliation, stacked up as he repeatedly failed to have even a fraction of a healthy person's energy. His friends began distancing themselves, the neighborhood started ostracizing him and viewing him as some sort of pariah, and soon, Tissues was left alone.

Sure enough, that defiance had turned to jealousy the longer Tissues stayed holed up in his home. Jealousy then became acceptance as the doctors predicted increasingly grim futures. And now, as he grew weaker by the day, acceptance turned to bitterness and regret.

Why did it have to be him? What did he do to deserve this fate? Tissues repeatedly asked himself those questions, and the pessimist within him would always be ready to answer with all his flaws, shortcomings, and mistakes that made Tissues wallow even further in the shrouds of gloominess. If the naps did one thing right, it was keeping those lingering thoughts from festering too long (although proper rest was rare, given his frequent sneezing). The thoughts always came back in the end, but an escape from the prison of his mind was always welcome.

Perhaps there was one mistake he could never run away from. Tissues eyed the gold-framed photo again.

The very first one.

~~~

Tissues always found it ironic how despite having an extremely hygienic mother and an extremely strong father, he was never much of either. Perhaps that was why they never liked him much.

Soap worked as a housekeeper at a wealthy family's villa, scrubbing and scrubbing until late at night, sometimes not returning home until morning. He couldn't remember her appearance too well anymore apart from a lot of pink. Trophy was a professional wrestler who looked every bit the classical hero. Blond hair, blue eyes, tall, muscular physique, all that. He wasn't in the big leagues, but his skill and reputation were constantly improving, and he stayed busy at the gym working to better himself.

As a result of their schedules, negligence was a common theme in Tissues' childhood, but it wasn't something he could fault his parents for. He wasn't sickly back then, so he made friends at school, and after the school bus dropped him off, he ran around and played in the neighborhood with other children. When he returned home, there would usually be one parent with whom he'd enjoy dinner (in the case of Soap, also getting scrubbed down until he was immaculate in appearance). Those formative years had many of his most cherished memories.

If he had known that those would be his only years of true freedom, he would have tried to enjoy them to the fullest. But alas. Hindsight is 20/20.

Things changed when his little brother was born. To his parents, Box was the embodiment of a good boy, being both well-built and clean. While Tissues came home from playtime exhausted and dirty, Box worked out with Trophy — successfully.

Slowly but surely, his parents' attention began shifting towards Box. After Trophy won a prestigious wrestling tournament, Soap quit her job to care for Box full-time. The conversations at dinner began to be all about Box, Tissues but a fly on the wall except for a "you should be more like Box" comment or when Soap noticed his shabbiness. This despite Box being voluntarily mute.