Hope

I can feel my feet shape the muddy ground beneath. I’ve been walking for over thirty minutes now. My undesirably hairless head is itching underneath my red cap. I lift my hand and scratch it. The itching goes away. Imagine if everything ought to be that simple. I recall the first time I ever experienced it, hair fall; my mother said it would regrow but I knew it wouldn’t. She said it is normal but I knew that nothing in my situation ever is.

My lungs wheeze as I breathe. That’s their way of demanding me to stop. I sit underneath the old pine tree in the most infrequent park. My tank rests beside me, as always. Scars and stories are engraved on this bench, one of those is mine.

I used to come here before the sickness struck, every Friday after school. My mother was used to me being late that day. I would grab a bag of vinegar flavored potato chips and get on my way. It was my hide out, my playground and my thinking space. On this same bench I used to engrave the name of the person that marked my day, either with happiness or sadness. I often would write Petra’s name. She was my best friend growing up. She used to help me so much when we were young. She used to advise me as if she was my big sister yet we were of the same age. Petra loved reading. She used to have quotes for everything, and that usually was the reason why I would write her name here. She once told me “Life is under no obligation to give us what we expect”. It was a bit too wise for her to say such a thing at our age. I did not understand her then. But I do now.

One would wonder what got me here today.

“Sweetheart I found a new experimental treatment, it seems really promising. Call me as soon as you get this, love you”.

 I got this message from my mother minutes ago.

I took a deep breath, several deep breaths and I started following wherever the road might lead.

“I do not want to try anything anymore”, I thought and for the first time that’s what I actually typed in that small space under her message. I pressed send and felt the weight of those words being lifted off of me.

My phone keeps ringing; it’s her calling, constantly. She must be worried. I lock my phone turning the screen black. She does not understand what I’m going through. She always has hope. She does not understand that hope is merely an illusion distancing her from the thought of me being gone and that I am deemed to suffer until she loses it.

I sit here waiting and I think of how long it has been since I have been waiting. She inflicted me with her hope of a resolution which I know is not possible. I am not ready. I never will be. So why wait any longer? Why endure more suffering? Why let her watch me fade bit by bit?

I don’t want to wait anymore. I’m not thinking of any goodbyes. All I can think about is reaching for the tubes on my nose and snatching them away. So I am, with a trembling hand and a soulless determination, I’m freeing myself and her. 

My phone keeps on buzzing. My breath keeps tightening. I keep wheezing. I feel some kind of relief as I stop breathing. My hand drops. My phone cracks.

I used to think that in this moment my life would flash before my eyes but all I can see now is my mother’s weeping face.

I want to breathe. I want to undo what I’ve done but it’s too late now.

As I draw my final breath, as it all goes black, I barely hear what seems as a footstep.

Hunger Bites

His worn out soles drag ponderously on the scabrous floor. He holds a sign in his trembling wrinkled hands which is shredded on its upper right. People pass by him; none of them bother to look at his long bearded weary face. His hand drops devastatingly along with the sign. It now trails behind him.

He follows the road; wherever it may lead for maybe it will break him out of his misfortune. He wanders on the most familiar road and his body steeps in front of the most familiar smell. He holds his head up sighing. His teary eyes stare at the rubbish cart and his hand grips. The rhythm of his footsteps slows down while he makes his way towards it.

 The streets are crowded with Louboutin heels and Rolex watches and the road is flooded with cars and their overwhelming noises. He presses his hand on his ear, breathes heavily and halts. He looks around in desperation at the lively world around him then looks back at that miserable cart which seems to be his only hope. A scar that reveals on his darkened hand, right under the sleeve, gives up quite a bit of his past. It seems as a burn scar. He pulls his sleeves back down, puts aside the sign and reaches inside the filthy cart.  It reeks but still he reaches for it. He searches thoroughly.

After a while, he comes up with a bag full of leftovers, a dozen of flies and a look of relief on his face. He grabs the bag tight, leans down and holds his sign. The old man looks up at the clear blue sky and gazes in its clarity, its holiness. He walks slowly towards the corner where he had kept his old brown blanket. He sits down and wraps himself with the pierced piece of fabric. He takes a deep breath and inhales the sweet scent of freshly baked bread from the fancy bakery just across the street. He opens his cherished bag and spreads the reeking goods on the sidewalk in front of him; a rotten apple, half a loaf of bread and a box filled with fries untouched. He chooses the apple to consume first and puts the other two back in the bag.  Meanwhile the sign, meant to reach out to those refusing to see the other side of their shallow world, lays facedown.