10 Things: A Cody Simpson Fan Fiction

Sixteen

Merinda:

          The next morning was the worst one of all the previous mornings. It wasn’t that hard to guess, I guess, considering I’ve always been one to cherish life more than I cherish my hair.

          Ever since I woke up, it’s as though the only place my body craved to be at, was the toilet. I even ate my breakfast there, due to the fact that whatever edible stuff had entered into my body would leave after five tiring, agonizing, excruciating minutes.

          But this is my fate. I don’t have choice, even if I would love to have one.

          Alli was still in bed because she kind of had too much fun (in a clean way) on webcam with Jake last night, and Tom was watching SpongeBob in his own bunk while Matt? Oh, he was too busy playing on his phone after crashing on it for like, three hours straight in the morning.

          And Cody?

          I didn’t expect Cody to care, because I think he didn’t even notice me running into the toilet, which was a good thing considering what he didn’t know wouldn’t kill him (and me, earlier)  it wouldn’t be able to make his suspicion greater.

          You’d think I would die for him to know, and to do something about it, and to heal me in some way because he loves me, right?

          No, you’re wrong.

          I don’t want him to know because I know he’d hurt more than me. I don’t want him to know because I know he would hate me for doing something so wrong―hiding the deepest secret that has been, and still is spreading within me, from him.

          I don’t want to see him hurt while I’m still here.

          Let’s face it, okay? When I’m gone, he’ll learn about it, and he would be sad about it. But I’ll be gone then. My presence now would mean nothing at that time because I wouldn’t be hanging around anymore. I won’t mean anything to anyone anymore, which makes it easier for everyone to forget about me and stop hurting in a short period of time.

          Maybe that’s the easiest way out for me.

          Maybe that’s the hardest way out for everyone else.

          But what is there to be done when cancer is incurable? And even, sometimes, durable? Nothing. Especially if the one who’s suffering from it doesn’t want to fight it. I don’t want to fight cancer, because it’s not worth doing so. I’m afraid of what the outcome might be. I’m afraid that it would all be a waste if I fought it and passed on either way.

          I don’t want that. I really don’t.

          Some people would say that, oh, maybe I would die a better death knowing I had bothered to stand up to cancer, but what they don’t know and probably wouldn’t ever know about me, is that I don’t belong to that kind of people.

          I’d rather allow something to do me bad than stop it because it’s unstoppable and I don’t want to leave the world knowing it was meaningless and useless of me to even try.

          And even if I were to do it, I’d like to do it alone. I don’t want others to fight with me and sadden themselves more than they already are. Because if it’s unsuccessful, and I really go, I can’t imagine the feeling they’ll have to go through.

          It would be insufferable.

          Feeling my heart wrenching, squeezing, wringing, twisting, aching, I gave my head a shake as an attempt of shaking them all of as the churning feeling inside my stomach returned for a visit, making me bend over the toilet bowl, ready to puke my guts out once again.