❦ 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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SUNLIGHT bathes the room in silvery light through the window, turning the white of my sketchpad a luminescent glow where I'm sitting on the floor.
I bob my head absentmindedly to the peaceful guitar strumming through my headphones.
These Memories by Hollow Coves.
I love songs like this. I love the serenity they set in my bones. I love how the melody of the voices make my skin shudder.
A body sitting down next to me startles me. I tear out my headphones when I see Nick's smile striking me like a punch.
"Whatcha doin'?" he asks, leaning over to steal a glimpse at my latest piece of art.
I snap my sketchbook shut. "Nothing."
That charming smirk replaces his smile. A sparkle of mischief twinkles in his eyes.
"Nothing, huh?" He holds out his hands. "Come on."
I shoot him a hesitant look, watching him out of the corner of my eye.
He gestures to me again. "I won't bite."
I relent.
There's just something wrong about saying no to him. Not in a manipulative way. I mean in the way of not being able to say no to him about things he wants to know about me.
I just can't.
I hand him my sketchbook, his hands brushing mine.
The same spark from before arcs through my fingers and up my arm. I resist the reflex to pull my hands away at the strike of electricity.
I watch him flip through the pages with delicate fingers, blue eyes scanning the drawings, some smaller sketches bunched onto one page and sprawling artwork on others.
I watch his lips split slightly to allow perfect white teeth to peek through and his forehead to crinkle.
The corner of his mouth rises into a lopsided smile at the portraits of Bobbi and Simon. His fingertips touch the cheek of Frankie's portrait, her face beaming mid laugh.
I swallow and force myself to look away when he turns to me.
"These are amazing. I knew you were good, but, wow." He closes the sketchbook and gives it back to me. I intentionally avoid his touch when I take it from him. "You seriously need to go to art school or something."
I scoff. "I don't think I'm going to live long enough to go to art school."
The near silence is a little intimidating; the only sound is the music blaring through my headphones next to me. Despite the silence, the atmosphere is almost peaceful.
Nick rearranges himself to be sitting facing me. The sunlight makes his skin look rejuvenated, perfect without a blemish. The blue of his irises begin to glow, and an internal sigh loosens in my chest.
