Letting you go [COMPLETE]

Chapter 9

This chapter is super short but there's a reason! I was going to make it apart of another chapter but I decided to split it into two seperate ones. Mean, I know! [You'll know why at the end ;)]

Unedited, so tell me the mistakes and I'll fix them.

Hope you like it . . .

_____________________________

“Why were you in hospital for so long?”

I look over at Rick, his attention on his DS. There’s silence in the car at the question; mum freezing in the passenger seat and dad showing less panic.

I shrug. “I was sick.”

Rick looks at me, his stare unnerving. “You’re sick a lot.”

I just shrug, with no answer. I can tell him the truth—‘I’m dying of cancer. Want to join me?’—but I can’t do that. So I don’t say anything. “I am.”

“Why?”

“God hates me.”

Rick pauses his game. He looks over, looking more serious than a ten-year-old should. “I don’t believe in god. Is that bad? Macy at school says that you have to believe in god. She says I’ll go to hell. I think she lies about it though.”

“You won’t go to hell,” mum says from the passenger seat.

“Why not? Is hell real?”

“It depends on what you believe, son,” dad adds.

“Do you believe in hell, dad?”

Dad shrugs. “I don’t know.”

Rick frowns. “Oh. Well, I don’t think it’s real.”

“That’s okay. Everyone believes in different things.”

Rick turns to me. “So, god is why you’re always sick?”

“I guess.” I’d like to believe it. After all, god is the one who supposedly created all life. So, by default, he’d given me cancer. I only wish it’s true. I’d just been one of the unlucky ones to develop cancer.

Rick’s expression hardens, his usual happy face morphing into one of anger. “I hate god. He made you sick.”

Unable to stop myself, I wrap my arm around his shoulder and pull him into me. He goes without complaint, leaning against me. Smiling sadly, I kiss his forehead. “I hate him too. Don’t worry though. I’m okay now.”

He nods, completely serious. “That’s good. I don’t like it when you’re sad.”

My heart breaks for him. He shouldn’t have to be worried about me. He’s just a ten-year-old who should be worried about making friends. Not worrying about his sister. Granted, my childhood had ended at that age. But that was me, not him. He doesn’t have cancer—and I hope he never does. “I won’t be sad anymore, I promise.”

He just stares at me, eyes wide.

“Promise,” I say, holding my little finger out.

He holds out his own finger and I link them together. “See? Promise.”

He doesn’t say anything, just leans against my shoulder.

*             *             *

“How is he?”

My eyes cut to dad. He looks stressed out and I can’t blame him.

“It’s okay. I’m fine.”