❦ 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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I'm standing in his room, hands in the pockets of my golden suede jacket—the one he always said he loved—looking around at how empty it is.
It's been three months since Ollie died. The pain hasn't gotten any easier. I still have days where I can't do anything. Those days I just lay in bed and cry. But those days aren't nearly as frequent as they used to be. I've learnt to deal with the grief. Bobbi, Simon and I do it together. Talking about it when one of us are having one of those rough days helps.
It's been three months since this room was completely furnished. Bella was kind enough to hold off on clearing it out for as long as she could. The psych doctors agreed it was best for the mental health of all the Tombstone residents to keep Ollie's room as it was for as long as they deemed it necessary. It's been good for the three of us as well. There were nights I had to sleep here. There were nights when all three of us did. Those were rough.
But it's time to move on.
The round table, the desk and the bed are the only pieces of furniture left in the room with fresh bedding tucked in so tight there are no crinkles in the sheets and blankets, nothing on the desktop and the table scrubbed until it shined.
The paint-splattered side table, the easel, the telescope, the guitar, the string of lantern lights on the bed backboard, all the photographs are gone, all of it shipped back to Montauk.
Most of the artwork on the walls have been painted over in the sterile white it was before. The only one left is the Tuscan mural. I don't know how long I've been staring at it for, but it feels like years.
I glance over my shoulder when I hear someone pass through the threshold.
Her hair is starting to grow back a little—I can see it poking through the edges of her beanie. She looks healthier. I'm happy for her.
"They're releasing me tomorrow."
I put on a smile, no doubt it looks fake to her, but it's far from it. "Congrats."
She takes a tentative step forward. She looks nervous. "How are you doing?"
"Like everything bright and wonderful in this fucked up world has been wiped out." I turn to face my sister fully. My shoulders creep up to my ears and then drop in relaxation. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do now. I don't know how it's even possible to move on when he's not here to do it with me."
"He'd want you to move on and be happy." I note the way she twists her index finger, a habit of hers I know all too well is guilt. "I'm sorry, Nick. I'm sorry for trying to split you two up."
I understand why Frankie tried. I understand she didn't want a repeat of what happened to Matt. I understand she was terrified of what it would do to our family.
But there's so much of it I don't understand. I don't get why she couldn't be open minded. I can't wrap my head around why me being happy wasn't enough for her to trust me. I can't understand why me being happy wasn't enough, period.
