❦ WINNER OF THE RIVETING WRITING CONTEST ❦
OLIVER IS DYING
With only months left to live at just seventeen, Oliver spends his remaining days of endless tests and debilitating drugs in the St. Andrews paediatrics ward planning his impending funeral...
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SOME days I can't breathe.
It comes with the death sentence.
Cystic fibrosis is cruel that way. It doesn't care who you are, who you love, what you could be. It'll make life hard because it can.
I lay on my bed, eyes fluttering, as I breathe the cool oxygen through the mask. I listen to the constant vibrations and consistent inflation and deflation of the oscillation vest strapped to my chest.
The first time I wore the vest, it was weird. It was an unnatural feeling wearing something that felt like a blood pressure band tightening and loosening around my torso. It was loud, intrusive and just all around uncomfortable. But it always did its job in the end, despite how much I hated wearing it.
The machine finishes after the fifth minute, and the coughing begins to clear my airways of the mucus the vest brought up.
This routine is something so ingrained in my daily regime that things become like reflexes—breath in oxygen, let the vest do its work, five minutes past, grab tissues before the vibrations finish, cough up my breakfast.
I see Bobbi wheeling Simon through my doorway from the corner of my eye as I tear the velcro of the vest apart to slip it off, still coughing up anything that'll clear my airways.
"You okay?" Bobbi asks.
I slide my oxygen tube on, feeling the cool air through my nostrils. "I'm good."
I clear my throat again and wave Bobbi's nervous expression away; she should be used to this by now, but I suppose this is something that's still about as fun to watch as it is to experience.
She sits on my bed by my feet and Simon parks his chair next to us.
"I've got news," I say.
"Spill," Bobbi orders, crossing her legs and leaning forward eagerly.
"You know the new girl?" I lean forward like Bobbi did. "She's got a brother." I wiggle my eyebrows at her. "A hot brother."
Bobbi gasps before punching Simon in the arm. "Look at that, Simon! Our baby boy has a crush!"
"You need to tell us everything," Simon says as he rests his arms on his knees. "Start talking."
I tell them everything—how he stood in the doorway, how those eyes the color of arctic icicles and freezing water explored my room and lingered on the Tuscan countryside painting, how those eyes flicked to me and watched me carefully, how he shook my hand with a smooth and soft palm, how our hands locked together for longer than what was acceptable for two dudes, how he looked back at me once before he left with Frankie.
A grin widens on Bobbi's face, her hands waving a little wildly before slapping over her mouth. "It's love at first sight!"
I don't say anything. The side smile I shoot her is enough to make a little squeal escape her lips.
