CØmpletely FictiØnal

Leukemia

I'm dying and I'm okay with it. It hurts to live. Everyone's huddled around me, crying, telling me they're going to miss me, asking me with their eyes to hang on for as long as I can, but I don't want to live anymore. They said I'll be with Grandma. They said I won't hurt when I die. But they still want me to stay alive.

When they're gone I cry a lot, too. I feel guilty, even though they say I shouldn't. I can't help but feel sad for making them cry. I just know they'll cry more and harder when I finally go to be with Grandma. I don't want them to cry.

One night the nurse came in to change the sheets. I asked him what he would do if he was me. He thought about it while he made my bed.

"I think I'd..." He didn't have the words and I knew it. But I wanted him to say something. Anything. "I'd..." Please. Say something.

He didn't say anything. He sighed and tried to say he was sorry then left. He went to cry, just like them. I was too good at making people cry.

I turned on my side and squeezed my pillow and waited for the light to come through the window and take me to a better place. It didn't. I was stuck here for another day. I was beginning to hate everything.