Thirty Fifth: Chemo

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I sit in a very comfortable light green chair and am surrounded by those of the same color. My arm has an IV running from it up to a few bags, which are connected to a machine that looks like a heart monitor; but it has more buttons and a different screen. Each of the chairs have identical machines beside them, connected to people - about 5, if you don't include myself - who all seem to represent the different stages. One man wears an orange baseball cap with hairs sticking out from under it; a woman with heavy makeup that sits on my left has absolutely no hair at all; and a few others have hair but look ultimately miserable or confused or sad. I feel sad.

This is no help to the sadness I still feel about my father. Yesterday's events, however, have definitely improved my emotions. I actually got out of bed on my own today; I'm a lot happier than I imagined.

The chairs are in sort of a semi-circle that opens up to a desk beside a doorway. The door is held open by one of those wooden blocks, and I look up from my book every once in a while to see if Mrs. Hudson is here to take me to get ice cream - as she promised - and then back home.

I'm reading The Hobbit for the first time. Sherlock has loads of classic and fantasy and sci-fi books mixed in with his nonfictions - you just have to really look.

My head lifts up for one of my 10 minute checks, and I see someone new come in. A tall woman with a worn face and dirty blonde hair pulled back into a rushed ponytail holds the hand of a boy about her height. He looks a lot younger than her and a lot prettier... No offense to her, of course, but dear God. His hair is the same dark blonde as his mothers, and it shimmers golden in the light; it peeks from under a beanie that he wears low over his head; a black T-shirt hangs loosely over his small frame. The boy's jeans bunch up a bit around the ankles over work boots, and I wonder if he actually works in them or if it's just his style. He has a perfect facial structure - not too defined yet not too dull - and lips that look just as soft as his hair.

The only seat available is the one on my right, and I blink for the first time since I started staring at him forever ago: this is a cliché. It's what happens in movies and romance novels and anything else, really. A cute boy sits next to a cute girl, who usually already saw him earlier in the book, and they eventually have a nice discussion. Then she finds out he's dating the popular girl, and I sigh and tear my gaze from his beautiful gray eyes which haven't noticed me yet. My own eyes stay trained on the book, but my mind goes wild.

Should I talk to him? What if he doesn't like me? What if he's younger - or older - than he looks? Is this his first time doing chemo?

It doesn't matter, though, because like all girls in those books I can't talk, and I have to remind myself to breathe. I smile down at my book and cover my face with my hand.

"Will you be okay if I go get your sister?" his mom asks softly. She has a Scottish accent, and I get way more excited than I should.

"It's fine, mom. I've done this before," I hear a smile in his voice. My eyes skim the pages before turning it casually.

"Alright. I love you. And if you need anything, just ask a nurse," his mom responds. I accidentally glance up and watch her exit, noticing that her tight jeans drag on the floor a little, and her hoodie has a butterfly on the back. My eyebrows pull themselves together as I scold myself internally; was I about to judge her? I've been in her spot - if not, in a worse spot - and now since I have a decent household, I think I'm all that. No, Mickey, you were not judging her; you were trying to deduce.

Her naked and calloused hands indicate that she's a single mother who most likely has more than one job. She could be a waitress because of the way her hair is pulled back; she could also be a painter because of the few paint stains I saw on her pants. Maybe she's both...

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