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The Worst Sickness

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The blinding fluorescent lights assault the boy’s bright blue eyes as he enters the hospital room. Banal eggshell white had seized control of the walls and ceiling, incarcerating any sliver of vibrance they once held. The nurse that guided him to the room simply instructs him to sit in a chair that resides next to a decaying ficus in the corner before she quickly exits the room. Hesitantly, the boy sits in the mahogany chair, readjusting a few times before the green plush seat agrees with him.


Leaning forward, he cups his thin hands over his gaunt face and tries to piece together the events that just took place. Not too long ago had he been getting ready for Church with his family when they immediately rushed him to hospital at the sight of him. His mother and father seemed to treat him like a belligerent fool as he futilely tried to assure them nothing was wrong. Both of his parents seemed to be in a state of panic as they entered the automatic glass doors and into the hustle and bustle of the busy hospital. The nurse had taken one look at the boy and donned the same expressions as his parents before rushing him to the room where he was now pondering the situation.


The meditation does not last long, for a doctor promptly walks into the room and takes a look at his newest patient. Immediately, he already begins writing notes, his middle-aged face wrinkled and serious. Dullness is present in his green eyes and his thinning silver hair lay askew on his scalp. As he finishes taking his notes, he pulls up a rotating black stool and sits across from the boy, a look of curiosity present on his wrinkled face.


Looking at his note-infested clipboard for reference, he speaks, “So, Mr. Jones, what seems to be the problem? Your parents seemed awfully worried when I spoke with them.”


The boy leans back, his exotic blue hair covering his left eye and his multiple piercings gleaming in the resplendent lights, and replies, “I don’t know. One minute I’m getting ready for Church and the next my parents are rushing me here like I’m dying or something.”


“I see.” The doctor takes a glance at the boy’s appearance, taking note of his unusual hair, his piercings, and his odd clothing. The jet black shirt on his lanky frame bore a symbol of a burning skull and his baggy black jeans had multiple chains hanging from the waist. He writes a few notes down before speaking again, “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”


The boy complies with a slight apathetic nod of his head, the locks of azure hair shaking like a pendulum. Concern is etched into the geriatric doctor’s face as he sighs deeply before speaking again.


“Have you always been like this?”


A look of confusion dawns on the boy’s face as he asks, “What do you mean?”


The doctor shifts in his seat before elaborating, “Sorry, I should have been clearer. Have you always been this unique with your appearance?” He seems uncomfortable being around the boy as he awaits an answer.


The boy’s perplexity ceases to wane, “I don’t see what this has to do with anything, doctor.”


“Just answer the question please.” The doctor responds forcefully.


The boy decides to humor the doctor, “I’ve only started changing my appearance recently. Maybe a month ago? I didn’t dye my hair blue until last night though, after my parents went to bed.”


The doctor replies with the usual, “I see.” More notes are furiously scribbled down.


Over an hour has passed in the bleak hospital and the boy’s mother frantically paces back and forth while her husband sits nonchalantly in his seat. He has given up trying to comfort his wife, knowing that she won’t listen and that he himself is just as worried as her, but does not choose to show his feelings. The ticks of the clock hands seem magnified to the rumbling of an earthquake as both of them constantly glance up at the mechanism.


The mother wipes her sweaty palms on the front of her plain and modest purple dress, the frills seemingly identical to that of early 1900s apparel. Her husband is also donned in the attire of a simple man, a classic suspender trousers and button up formal shirt. The mother’s hair is a rich auburn color and hangs curled at shoulder length, while her husband’s hair is short, black, and greased back. He begins to tap his foot to calm his nerves.


The mother’s agony is alleviated when the doctor comes walking down the hallway to her, an odd solemnity in his step. He approaches her and she immediately asks, tears brimming in her eyes, “Doctor, what’s wrong with my son? Is he going to be okay?” Her husband cranes his neck to hear the conversation, too afraid to join his wife in their time of suffering.


The doctor pauses, trying to find the words to convey the message he so desperately does not want to deliver, until the mother’s shimmering blue eyes persuades him to respond, “I’m afraid your son has a fatal illness that has no known cure.”


Tears cascade down the mother’s rosy cheeks, “Well what illness is it? Please doctor I’m in enough torment as it is.”


A deep sigh escapes the doctor’s thin lips as he grudgingly says, “Your son has individuality.”


With that, he walks away, unable to bear the sight of the hysterical mother. Her husband leaps from his seat to comfort her in an endless embrace as she screams out, “Not my baby, why? WHY?”



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anonymously said...
May 4, 2010 at 3:23 pm
lol, that was great. You painted a picture of a fairly stereotypical emo, though. Emo has come to a point where you're not being original no matter what you do, its kinda sad. Anyway, great job.
 
ChildoftheSky said...
Mar. 10, 2010 at 11:23 am
Wow, this was great! Love the message and had no idea what was going on until the last second!
 
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