Keeping Things Whole [ON HOLD]

Chapter 1

But before I start, I guess there are some explanations and introductions in order. You probably hearing this like “why the hell should I care about this Shiloh kid and his problems?” I honestly don’t have the answer for this question, either. But if you are listening, if anybody is listening, I guess I’ll start. My name is Shiloh Tucker, and I’ve hated it since I was twelve. I mean, it’s really hard to be a delinquent when you’re named after a fictional dog. But that’s my name, and I have my mom to thank for that. There’s not much else I can thank her for, though, since she died in a car accident when I was two.

—Insert sob story about inadequate childhood here.—

But really, I guess I should be, like, really emotional about it, but I’m not. I don’t even remember what she looks like, except in pictures. I got her brown hair, but that’s it. Anyway, you can’t really miss what you never had.

Anyway, since then it’s just been my dad and I in our own little bachelor pad in downtown San Francisco. Well, mostly just me; he’s never home. He’s more like the roommate you never see, and yet you know that they still live with you because you hear the front door open and close every night at eleven-thirty, then the shower running at five AM.

Being seventeen, I can honestly take care of myself, and I don’t mind; it makes me feel older. I can drive now, so I buy the groceries and at least try to keep the place clean. Well, not exactly clean: as long as I can see the floor, I’m satisfied. Thank God for dishwashers, too. We would have a mile-high pile of filthy dishes sitting in the sink for months if it wasn’t for that wondrous invention. But up until now, I’ve been the one holding down the fort. Not because I’m responsible—I think that you can tell by now that responsible is not one of the many adjectives that can be used to describe me. I do it because nobody else will, and I don’t want to end up volunteered for one of those “clean house” or “hoarding” television shows by concerned friends. On guy standards, it’s acceptable. On girl standards, it probably looks like a shithole filled with dirty underwear and empty cans of that squeezie-cheese that I put on everything. Seriously, there is no way that stuff can actually be real cheese, but it tastes so goddamn good.

But it’s for these reasons that I’m usually crashing with Ethan or Alex, since they actually have female influences in the immediate family, ergo their houses are actually livable. It’s not like I haven’t had any female figures: I’ve had a girlfriend or two; my first was my freshmen year, second was in sophomore. But they never lasted, and I really don’t care, at this point. I mean, I’ve made out with a few drunk chicks at parties since then, but I don’t think that counts; they probably didn’t even remember their own names at that point, much less mine. I guess you can call me a dirt bag for that, but it’s not like I do anything worse than that. I don’t know, maybe right now you’re hearing this and thinking, “This asshole totally deserves that brain tumor or whatever the hell he has”. Huh, maybe you’re right… I don’t even know anymore. Is anybody out there? Is anybody listening to this?

Anyway, that’s basically my life. I’ve never done anything horrible and I’ve never done anything wonderful. I’m pretty even-keeled right now, so I’m not sure if it’s going to be heaven or hell, at this point. Of course, Ethan’s mom thinks I’m going to hell; she thinks everyone’s going to hell except herself. I really can’t say how I feel about this whole thing yet. I guess it hasn’t sunk in, because I’m supposed to be, like, crying right now. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do when you find out you’re going to die? I sure as hell don’t want to die; I haven’t had the chance to do… well, anything except add onto my permanent record. I hate to admit it, but I guess I did cry a little that night, but I made sure Dad wasn’t home and I tried to be quiet.

But yeah… they haven’t really said it outright, but I know that the chances of me living are basically slim to none. Evidently they’re testing out possible cures for it right now, since Chemo is invariably messy and painful. In a few months I’ll be sent to some fancy treatment center for therapy, though they don’t know about surgery yet—evidently the procedure is risky for my kind of “high-grade” tumor is risky, especially since my young age makes me a complete wild-card. But I can tell the doctors are pessimistic; honestly, I am, too. I wonder what I’m going to be wearing in my coffin: hope they don’t slick my hair back or anything. Like, I know I’ll be dead, but still. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know it’s morbid. But I mean, it’s death! What else should I be thinking about right now?