The Seven Sins

ii. wrath

"One year."

Cristiano's insides did a flip. Not a nice flip though.

He's left Junior with Katia and his mother while he went to be examed by his doctor. He found out that the disease was not contagious, and although Cristiano knew what it was, he never considered it to be so real, and he cried at the doctor's office in earnest when the realisation that he had just another year to live dawned upon him.

It was silent sobs and small sniffs that could be heard from Cristiano's bowed head. He had to find a solution to this problem.

"And the cure?"

The doctor looked at him with cold eyes, a small glint of sympathy in them.

"You could get the flowers surgically removed. Ninety-nine percent of people lose their ability to love, though, and if you are okay with that, we can schedule the procedure tomorrow, if you have time."

Cristiano thought about it; he could do that. One thing bothered him, though.

"But, what about my family? Son? Friends?"

"I'm afraid you will loose any meaning of love that you currently feel," said the doctor, "including not loving your son. The problems start right away, he could get the disease in a span of a day if he doesn't feel your love and he still gives it."

The realisation of everything hit Cristiano full force once again.

"There's another option, but it may be slow and painful," said the doctor, putting his glasses on the table, "you tell the person that you love them and wait for them to return the feelings. It's a whole process, and it's hard to do it because it has to be true love, and true love only. I would advise you to give it a try."

Cristiano thought about Lionel's warm eyes and that gave him a sliver of hope, feeling his chest tighten with a dangerous sounding cough, spitting out yet another petal as the doctor gave him tissues to clean himself up.

Later that day, Cristiano came home to prepare some dinner for when his mother and Katia came to leave Junior. His hands were shaking and he couldn't chop up even the simplest vegetables. Cristiano groaned in frustration and stabbed the cutting board with the knife.

Suddenly feeling like his blood was boiling, he started screaming and pulling at his hair, walking around the kitchen and throwing things around, pillows and the television remote, which shattered at the impact. He grabbed a glass and threw it against the wall, watching it break in million of pieces, some of them reaching his bare feet on the ground.

"Fuck you, Lionel Messi! Fuck you!"

Cristiano slumped against the wall, some of the glass particles digging into his feet. He didn't care. He didn't care anymore. He wanted to die.

His sobs turned into strong coughs that shook his shoulders and something dark spilled in his hands, besides the blood.

A dark, violent purple, a whole flower of petunia.