Cancer.
It's a curse.
It turns people's lives upside down and ruins their relationships.
Brynne Foster is a perfect example.
After being diagnosed with leukemia at age 17, Brynne's family struggles to accept her decision of refusing chemotherapy...
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Four days ago
Cold sweat runs down my back as I wake up from my brutal nightmare.
Slowly, I realize that I am in a dark room with many beeping machines. The faint noise of yelling opens my eyes. Panting, I try to figure out what's real and what's not.
Brynne is in the hospital, Real.
Her blood is on my hands, Not real.
She has leukemia, Real.
My soul crushes as I notice her staring into my eyes. The tube coming from her neck shifts as she takes a breath.
She survived her surgery, Real.
Her frail body leaning against the bed sends anger running through my veins.
I run my fingers through my hair and push back the severe guilt rising in my throat.
Without even looking into her eyes, I leave the hospital room and storm down the hallway. Ignoring her favorite nurse's questions, I continue walking.
The terror of the men I killed that night follows me.
Their screams and pleads trail behind my footsteps. With every lunge that I take, they get louder and more urgent.
I reach the elevator and press the button until my finger aches.
The doors open, and I rush inside, clawing at whatever has gotten into my head.
My father's voice enters my mind and begins to taunt me.
"You've ruined everything, son."
"I knew I couldn't trust you."
"You're a complete disappointment."
I yell in frustration and cup my ears to stop the voices.
To my surprise, the elevator doors open to an empty hospital lobby. The parking lot is bare, and I drag my legs to my black BMW. The sun has gone down, leaving only a reminiscence of light. The stars become evident as I drive to my base.
Stepping on the gas; my car zooms past the endless green lights.
I should be taking care of Brynne.
I should be holding her hand and helping her prepare for chemotherapy. But, for some reason; I can't stand to see her in pain. It physically hurts me to witness her struggling.
I remember how athletic and active she used to be because I never missed one of her track meets. She can't even walk a couple of steps without asking for help.
My foot harshly presses against the gas. She doesn't deserve this.
I wish it was me. I wish that I was the one who got cancer, not her.
