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...
"I've never seen you in here before," a smooth Scottish accent pulls me from my thoughts. I look over at the boy on my right. "What are you in for - not to make it sound like a prison," he includes politely.
"I have bone cancer," I reply softly.
"Where?"
"In my shoulder." I tap my right shoulder. "What about you?"
"I've got skin cancer. It terrified me when I first saw it; I had this really dark spot on my side, and it kept spreading. I thought it was some sort of mutated birthmark," he chuckles. I give him a sympathetic smile.
"I'm sorry to hear that," I say.
The boy just shakes his head. "It's fine... I'm, uh, Richard, but they call me Ricky," he gives me a small smile.
Unexpectedly, I laugh very loudly. I get a few glares before covering my mouth quickly. "Sorry," I whisper to him. "It's just- My name's Mickey," I grin at him. "We rhyme," I finish dumbly. He laughs sweetly, his smile reaching his eyes.
"Yeah, we do!" There's a small silence as we stare at each other for what feels like a very long time; it's probably just a few seconds.
"So, what do you usually do to pass the time?" I ask him casually, leaning on the arm of my chair.
"I bring crossword puzzles and books and stuff. Oh, and I've got my phone to listen to music. What about you?"
"Oh, uhm... It's my first time here, so I've only got one book," I tell him awkwardly. "What sort of music do you listen to?"
"Well, I'm into Avenged Sevenfold and Slipknot. But I don't like Slipknot's new stuff," he shakes his head slightly with a scowl. "I also make my own music on guitar."
"That's cool. I play the violin! But it isn't usually classical stuff; I do covers of other songs," I tell him shyly.
"Like that guy on Youtube!" Then he laughs. "That wasn't very specific, but I feel like you know who I'm talking about." I nod and laugh too.
"Yeah! He was my inspiration - DSharp [shoutout ily]."
"Ohh, DSharp! I wish my hair was like his. If I lose my hair from this, I'll probably get myself one of those reggae hats that has dreads attatched to them," Ricky smiles fondly at me.
"You're optimistic," I mutter softly.
"I can be..."
We go on like that for hours, just talking about our hobbies and our families - I was right about the waitress thing, but she doesn't have two jobs - and music and books. It's scary to think that soon, if this chemotherapy doesn't work, we might not be able to talk again.
Eventually, Sherlock walks in, and I give him a look of confusion.
"Mrs. Hudson has come down with what appears to be the flu," he tells me quickly as he pulls the IV from my arm.
"Shouldn't I call a nur-"
"There's no need for all that. Get your stuff. She mentioned something about ice cream," he sends me a quick wink.
"Umm, alright." I begin to move, sliding my bookmark into The Hobbit, and standing up. A nurse walks over and asks what's going on. Sherlock explains that he's picking me up.
I glance behind myself at Ricky, whose eyebrows are raised slightly.
"Is that your dad?" he whispers as Sherlock walks over to the desk.
"He's a family friend," I whisper back.
"Mickey," Sherlock says quickly and loudly, "what's your last name?"
I roll my eyes and walk over beside him. "It's Ronan."
"Really? I knew a Ronan. But he's in Ireland," he shares, flourishing his pen quickly across the paper. The nurse says her thanks as Sherlock walks away quickly. I thank the nurse in return and wave bye to Ricky. He waves back with a grin, and I grin too before rushing off after Sherlock.
I slide into the cab beside him, and the driver takes off.
"What an odd place to meet a boy," Sherlock mutters as he stares out the window.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, there was clearly a connection between you two." He looks over at me, and I feel my face warm as I smile.
Then I frown. "I hope we don't end up like The Fault in Our Stars..."
"Isn't that a movie?" Sherlock inquires.
I nod, adding, "Based on a book." There's a short silence.
"I hope you don't end up like them either," he mutters quietly.