❦ 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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There are a lot of blanks in the last couple of days; days that feel like years to me.
The last thing I remember is talking to Nick, and then everything started spinning until I fell into a vortex of darkness. Next think I know I'm in a very white room under very bright lights with a very uncomfortable tube down my very dry throat staring into the very blue eyes of a very worried boy who, as much as I hate what he's done and what he's made my heart go through, I'm still very much in love with.
Everything's a blur when I'm moved back into my room, the breathing tube replaced with my normal oxygen tubes. The next time I wake up, I'm staring at the starry sky on my room's ceiling I painted two years ago with Nick asleep in the chair next to me, resting his head on his crossed arms on the side of the bed.
As much as I try to resist, I can't stop my hands from threading my fingertips through his blond hair that's grown into the early stages of what could become a shaggy mess.
His head rises. He leans back and rubs his eyes, the bags under them prominent. He's in the same clothes he wore the day of our fight. Has he stayed here the whole time? Has he not gone home?
"How are you feeling?" he rasps, his voice tinged with that just-woke-up tone.
"I've got a few weeks to live," I croak exhaustedly. "How do you think I'm feeling?"
Nick's eyebrows meet. "You heard?"
I heard everything. I heard his conversations with Bobbi and Simon. I heard the doctors telling my mother how much my expiration date is looming closer. I heard the talk my mom had with Nick. I heard him crying. I heard a lot of crying.
"You scared me," Nick says, twisting his ring finger. "Don't you ever do that again." He glances down at his hands. "Nearly losing you almost tore me to pieces."
"Noted."
I move to sit up.
Nick stands and extends his arms. "What are you doing?"
"I'm sick of laying down," I grumble. He goes to help me. I bat his hands away. "Don't tell me what to do."
I allow him to props up the pillows; I'm not sure I want him touching me. I lean back into them and the bed's backboard with a tired sigh.
I can see Nick better now. He looks completely drained and exhausted. He's dishevelled, his white shirt crumpled under his red and black flannel, his jacket on his lap that he used as some kind of blanket. There's a bad smell coming from him, but it's not a body stench per se. He needs to take those socks off and throw them away, for the good of all humanity.
"You don't have to stay anymore," I say, keeping my eyes trained on the door open ajar. "I'm fine."
"I'm not going anywhere. I'm not leaving you for a second."
