I only looked outside when it was storming. Sunshine was too depressing.
Storms were my forte. Loud, crashing thunder, explosions of lightning and the fierce, pounding of the rain. What beats something with so much power? It is one of the few things left on earth that human beings have found no way to control.
The best time of day is directly before, or immediately after a storm. When tension is mounting, the air smells like water, and the wind blows cool air through your hair.
My breath fogged up the glass on this cold autumn day. I fingered the buttons on my coat, anxious that someone would come in my room and check on me. I preferred being alone.
I shivered with awe and the loud, cracking, pounding of the hail as it bounced off the sidewalk, dented the cars, slammed and exploded on the solid concrete of the road. People rushed for cover in all directions. And I was alone.
The room was dark as the clouds covered the sun. I closed my eyes and listened to the storm. I tried to reach out and grab it, beg it to take me away from this cloudy, airy existence.
I tried to pour my mind into the hailstorm, to soak up every bit of the memory, because I wasn't sure if I'd ever see another one.
I pulled my coat tighter around me, hugging myself, fighting back tears. I don't cry. I never cry. I wasn't going to now.
I liked storms. They were a good distraction. Sunshine and brightness reminds me of everything I was going to miss out on. Storms reflected me, my heart, and everything. I could relate to them.
I didn't cry. But I didn't smile, either. I put my hand on the glass and felt the beating reverberate in my heart. I began to think more than I'd ever thought before.
I didn't think about the future much. It was too depressing. Yet I didn't think about the past much, either. Because my past was unbelievable happy. And knowing I could never go back, never reverse the clock, never be happy again, depressed me all the more.
But I opened myself up this one moment and thought about the future. Thought about how it was September. Wondered if I would see Christmas. Would I even see Thanksgiving? The odds of me seeing New Years were slim. But I might make it to Christmas. That would be nice. One last Christmas.
Did I even want Christmas? The thought of celebrating Christmas one more time, knowing in my heart that it would be the last time, darkened my thoughts again. It would be full of family forcing tense smiles and fake friends that only liked me because I was going to die.
My head spun, and I clutched the chair. I am going to die. The thought had never so clearly entered my mind before; it was more simply a grasp in the dark, a faint yet unconceivable notion that my time on earth was limited. It was finally hitting me. I couldn't breathe. The world was spinning, growing dark.
I forced myself to think, to think. I still had months left. I still had months left.
My breathing slowed.
I didn't cry.
I reached up and touched my head where my hair used to be. I thought about the day I found out I was going to lose it. I didn't cry then, either.
I cried once throughout the whole thing. When my little brother looked at me after a month of treatment and burst into tears. He was my only reason for staying. He was the one I cared about and the one I didn't want to leave alone in this nightmare of a world.
But with only months to live, you don't really have a choice, do you?