Things Remembered

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Chapter One

My eyes flutter open from yet another bout of drug-induced, dreamless sleep. Am I imagining it? Or is he really sitting on the foot of my bed? I sit up, I blink a few times, rub my eyes. No. He really is here. My best friend. The one I trust. The one who always listens to me. Samuel Crestor. "Samuel" I say. My voice is cracking and hoarse, and three octaves higher than usual. This is what happens after painful throat surgery. When it hurts to eat, talk, or even swallow.

He heard me say his name. "Faith" he says, and walks to the side of the bed. He looks older than I remember. Stronger. Just the opposite of me. I am undoubtably looking younger than I have in a long time. I have lost a lot of weight from being unable to eat. I am weak. I am dazed from strong painkillers. My hair is matted and tangled. Ny skin is no longer the clear porcelen I try to keep, but oily and uneven from acne. I have not moved for days. Nothing can distract me from the awful pain in my throat. My stomach hurts too, but im running out of nausea pills. I must hold on.

"are you doing okay? Your not looking so great. Anything you need?" asks Samuel. It's truly incredible how selfless he is. Over the phone, he deals with me talking about myself all the time, never trying to make me stop talking. Only once have we ever talked about him. It makes me feel selfish, but he never says anything, so I never question it.

"I'm fine. How are you? Your looking better than I've ever seen you!" I try to exclaim, but it merely sound squeaky. "Oh, sorry." I say. "Never get your tonsils out, it is the most painful thing. And it makes you sound like you are three years old." But it is true, he is looking great. His arms and legs are more toned than I remember, he is very tan, and his face has aged about two years, whereas my arms and legs are skinny from lack of food, I'm pale as paper, and my face is hollow. "I'm doing pretty well. I'm already doing conditioning for basketball." Figures. He's the school basketball star. People think Samuel, they think basketball. It's clear he loves the sport. "Must be doing you good. Your very toned." I say. I try to gesture at his arms, but they merely flop around next to me. Suddenly my throat explodes in pain "Arrg-" I try to call out in pain, but that only makes it worse. I wrap my hands around my neck, slump back against the pillows, and begin to cry. As I am sobbing, I feel gentle, callused hands removing my hands from my neck, placing them at my sides, and having strong arms embrace me. I would hug back, but I am far too weak. Instead I sort of fling my arms around his neck, put my head on his shoulder, and cry. The last thing I remember is being lain back across my bed, and Samuel staring down at me with kind eyes, whispering something I cannot make out.

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