Verdict

The doctor’s mouth tensed.

Each word was drawn out. He winced, opening his mouth, about to say something. I knew what he was getting at. He couldn't look me in the eye. He sat there and sighed, putting the clipboard on the table beside him.

I was lying down in the bed, stiffly, eyes watering. I tried to keep them back, an arm covering my face. He needed to know he could tell me. He would've been fired if he didn't. Peeking out the corner of my eye, I watched his Adam's apple move up as he gulped, massaging his temple with his fingers. Whatever it was, it hit him hard. It wasn't any better seeing the condition I was in. Once again, he attempted, "you... have..." his voice trailed off, as he got up, turning away from me. His hands were behind his back, his finger nails denting his skin.

We were fond of each other. I'd been resting in that hospital for a while and every time he had an awkward patient, or a rebellious nurse, he sat and had his lunch by my bedside. We met when I was in a semi-private room. He wheeled in an older woman, who never stopped complaining about the cramps she suffered from. After some scans, Dr. Evans found it was nothing but a sprained ankle. Once he discharged her, I made a comment about her over reacting whilst he added that 'we have a lot of hypochondriacs.' We joked about it and he returned when his shift was over.

In my private room, it should've been easier to tell me. There was no need to pull across some curtains and try and tell me in hushed tones. I lay there, waiting for the news, my figure a permanent shape on the bumpy bed mattress.

Finally, he looked over his shoulder, "Three months to live. I'm so sorry, Trixie.” Still with his back to me, he leant over and picked up the clipboard. His hand shook slightly, his hand snatching it. The only part of his face I could see was his profile. Even as he shielded his face, I still saw that tear creep from his eye, down his cheek. He left the room, flinging the door open, creating a draft which blew my hair. As it settled, I leant up, drawing my arm down from my face.

Three months to live? I rocked back and forth, very slowly, my knees pressed to my chest. At this age, I was supposed to be invincible. It wasn't right. I was nearing the top of the transplant list. There weren’t enough organs. There weren't enough donors. 

Darkness spread throughout me �" even though the hospital lights shone brightly. My lips quivered. A warm, wet tear escaped from my eye. As I wiped it away, another came. They poured out from my eyes like a water fountain, the small damp circles wetting my gown. Before I knew it, I was audibly sobbing, face in hands. My drenched hands cupped a pool of tears, my nose running profusely as I grabbed a tissue. None of it would resolve the new found emptiness in my heart. A portion was carved out. My hopes and dreams, dashed.

I would never be a mother, a wife. I would die as I lived, alone. The room closed in, my breath quickening. The walls were getting closer; though I stayed still. Squeezing my eyes tight, my body shaking violently, I pulled the thin covers to my chest, hearing a sound from across the hall.

My eyes flicked up to the window through the door. Another patient across the hallway, in another room, his family cheering. They wrapped their arms around him as his wrinkled lips curved up into a smile. I looked back to my room, the air conditioning echoing. My family was gone.

My mother had trouble conceiving, opting for I.V.F. at 40. My father was her close friend and a sperm donor. When he found out I had heart troubles at 11, and would need regular hospital trips, he disowned me, 'I didn't sign up for this s**t!' I haven't seen him since. Which never mattered anyway. He never wanted to be a dad; he just did it for my mum. I never understood why she chose him in the first place. He never taught me a thing. He only popped round once a month; to go out drinking with mum. He never cared about anything or anyone. Mum thought he was a great, fun person and that someone as attractive as him would make great children. When I turned out 'rotten' with my heart condition, mum blamed it on herself. My heartless dad was to blame. His family had a history of heart trouble. He only told her when I was diagnosed. Of course, I was extremely cross. It was all his fault. He left me with her. Thanks to him, after my diagnosis, she lost her soul. As well as her health.

She's sitting in another hospital ward. Her lungs have been failing her from all the years of smoking. It was her way of coping once she found out that eventually my heart would give out on me. She tried to smoke outside, away from me. She hoped that if she made the smallest efforts that my heart would magically recover. She'd thought it was her fault that she'd poisoned me or that she shouldn't have gone against nature. She should've done the right thing and adopted. I told her that I was meant to be, that it could've been worse. She wouldn't have any of it. She drove me to hospital and paid the bills, but I felt like a caretaker. The washing stacked up as she hid away in her room, leaving me to do it. By the time I finished, sparkling clean plates and spotless surfaces all around, my homework was untouched.

Mum just didn't want to see herself, who she'd become, as she'd turn out the lights and toss sheets over all the mirrors. She officially had nothing - as she lacked the willpower to quit smoking. She couldn't even make 'normal' children.

Her coughing worsened after each cigarette. At 16, I heard her from upstairs, spluttering, almost choking on air. She wheezed and resigned herself to the fact that this was her fate; her punishment for 'breaking' me. It wasn't what I thought. She needed the help, but I had no idea. Lots of kids were their parents' carers. I had a good life, still. Sure, I left after my GCSES and could only do a part time job, but I still had a life. It was better than the alternative; and since she was getting me the care I needed, that was what mattered.

Unfortunately, my perpetual battle with my heart would be resigned to end as my family's had. 

Three years ago, my cousin, too, had made a bucket list. Cancer consumed him, as it did the majority of our family. To add insult to injury, our fertility rates have plummeted, hence, my mother.

Artie's cancer was extremely aggressive. By the time he even got a minute drop of drugs in his system, that small lump became enlarged and spread everywhere. Chemo, radiation, it fought a losing battle. Cousin Artie - excluding my other - was my last relative. He tried so hard to keep fighting, to be agile. He wouldn't succumb to the fate the rest of us endured. He had a plan; to jog everyday for a couple hours. He would only eat a diet of protein and vitamins. Salad was his favourite meal. He would limit his intake of fat and sugar, and he never touched alcohol. He only ever smoked once. So, after all his efforts, where did it land him? In the morgue. Dead by 30. He died several weeks after his cancer hit stage four. Without the condition, I was doomed too, with a useless heart. My expiration date, 26.

I hoped I'd never have to make my own bucket list, because it'd cement my fate. Regardless, there was no chance of a donor and so, I grabbed a pen and notepad.

My thin, pale arm jaggedly moved to the note pad. I clutched my bony fingers around it. The room was chilly, the air conditioner blasting in my face.

The list began with a joyride. The only cars I’d obtained throughout my short-lived life included beaten up old hand-me-downs and Mini Coopers. I never drove a sports car; with the roaring engine like a lion, that aggressive rev, that whooshing and whizzing as it flew past the streets. The wind tousling your hair as you sped down the roads like a Cheetah. Fast, furious, fearless. That kick in my system was what I needed. Not the hospital bed with its rough springs and un-plumped pillows. I wasn't going to rot in a hospital bed. I wanted to do what my cousin did and live out my last days to the full.

Shuffling to the bathroom, I grabbed a pile of my clothes and changed. My Arrhythmia was acting up again, forcing me to clutch my chest. My heart quivered, almost faintly. Slowly regaining my breath, I forced my heart rate to slow. Thump thump thump, thump thump, thump thump, thump.

Unbalanced on my feet, putting my hand against the walls, I carefully guided myself out the corridor and into a lift.

It was wide; large enough to fit a gurney and a few doctors either side. A doctor stood opposite me, his pager beeping wildly. He kept checking his wristwatch and tapping his foot as the lift buttons slowly lit up, 9, 8, 7. He constantly glanced down at the pager, which only beeped more incessantly as the lift stopped at every other floor, another doctor, nurse or family member getting in. By the time we hit 3 he shoved through the crowd of people blocking him in the lift. His white coat lifted up at the end, a draft he created as he ran. As the doors closed, I watched him get smaller and disappear, the only one on the whole of floor 3 to be racing down the hallway, whilst all the other Doctors walked around, clipboards in hands or discussing cases.

The receptionist at the desk gave me an uncertain look as I requested to check out. It was probably due to my thinning cheeks, which showed my cheekbones. Looking around at the healthy people, I held out my hand. Pale.

As I got sicker, my appetite decreased. I'd loved my body a few months ago, when it was a bit curvier. It reminded me of the only nice thing about my childhood. Food. When I had a little extra meat on my bones, I looked healthy, just like the visitors in the hospital. Mum loved to see me that way. It was the only thing that kept her going; besides knowing that she had another pack of cigs in the cupboard. It was her only true way of showing me affection, stuffing my little mouth. I may've been 'broken' but at least she could try and fill my 'incompleteness' with food. If she made me bigger, it would fill that chasm in her heart.

The automatic doors opened, as I stood in my loose hanging clothes. The air wasn't stuffy, but fresh. The blinding light hit my eyes, making me shield my face. Colours lit up around me, no more plain white walls. Heading to the car park, I got into another set of lifts, up to my blue beaten up three wheeler. From the months of being here, it's got some grime and a thick layer of brown dust. Outside, construction workers drilled away, the dust particles landing on the cars.

The other cars were decent, I thought, frowning at my own. Getting in the car, I had to slam the door twice before it shut properly and manually had to lock the doors, pushing the little black lock down with my index finger.

In my seat, I took out my list from my pocket.

#1 Go on a joyride

Kicking the engine in gear (and then restarting it) I headed to Lamborghini, the car company. The plan was to get a bright yellow one. Maybe then it would give me a sunny disposition.

The Car dealer wanted to talk about prices and tell me about its miles to the gallon; but it was irrelevant. Luckily, the Car dealer had a clumsy nature. He fumbled with the keys, attached to the loophole in his belt. He struggled to unclip them, snipping his finger. He sweated, rambling about the car's fancy gadgets, his mouth moving at the speed of light. He finally got the keys off his belt and clicked the unlock button; the headlights blinking once. He tried to open the doors, awkwardly striding to the car. I watched his scrawny finger slip, relocking the car. I shook my head as he desperately pulled at the door handle.

In that moment, another customer approached us, walking straight past me, "Hey, can you help me? I wanna check out that grey one over there." He gestured to the other side of the building.

"Yes, sir," croaked the voice of the young Carsaleman. As he walked away, a gorgeous bell-like ting entered my ears. Glancing down, on the tarmac, was a glistening key.

I kept stretching up my neck, checking if the Carsaleman would return. Stroking the side of the car, I felt its newly painted surface. I stepped back as I pulled the door handle, the door itself lifting up vertically. It was so futuristic, just perfection. It begged to be taken on a joy ride. The way it gleamed in the sunlight, the sparkling of its wheel, the enticing soft leather seating...placing a foot on each pedal, the engine purred as it came to life. I barely graced the pedal and it lurched forward, nearly bashing into another car. An elbow by the headrest, I reversed enough to give myself a clean escape. I negotiated my way through all the cars, lined up diagonally along the row. I pulled out and spun the wheel. 

Out the corner of my eye, I spotted the tradesman. He ran out through the translucent doors of the Dealership and out into the road, holding a hand out at me. I slammed on the pedal, the car jerking, to accommodate the shift in gears. 

Cruising down the motorway, an elbow poking out the car, I absorbed the atmosphere. There was no death. Instead, there was the flowery summer air beautifully blending with that new car smell. The review mirror was spotless and reflected the sun behind me. The sun showed the glorious golden of my hair as it whipped around in all directions. The radio blasted songs like "Sweet Home Alabama." I was laughing, free. The world was my oyster.

After going on a roundabout, making a right turn and driving a couple miles down the road, the traffic backed up. Taxis, caravans, trucks, lorries, cars, motorcycles. Every kind of vehicle imaginable. Drivers leant on their car horns, blasting at each other. The sounds echoed off each other and blasted over my music. I cut the engine, rubbing my forehead. Repositioning the rear-view mirror, my mouth hung open. Stuck in traffic, I was a sitting duck. Sirens blasted above the car horns, the urgency of the police cars accelerating up the breakdown lane.

Every heartbeat became louder than the last, until they blocked out the sound of the horns. The heartbeats started off gently, just a speedy feeling in my chest, until they arose into loud thuds, reaching my ears. Every beat of my heart I was wasting; waiting for them to get me. 

I swept my fringe out the way. If they were going to use that lane, so was I! Looking around, a few drivers lowered their windows; sticking their arms out and shouting to one another. They were trying to see the police cars. So when they weren’t looking, I restarted the engine and turned the wheel slightly. There lacked a large enough gap for me to pull out; so I scraped the car against a Polo behind me. The driver got out, slamming the door. His shouting, along with the ever rising sound of the police sirens, restarted my Arrhythmia. Acting fast, I drove, leaving a large scraping across the front of the angry driver's car as I pulled out. My front end, that bright banana, stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the silver, blue and red cars. 

To avoid detection, I skilfully manoeuvred the car, pulling forward slightly, barely stroking the accelerator. It inched out of the lane and I cheered as I revved up the engine and put my foot down. The lane was clear and I was blitzing past all those ignorant drivers! I saw them turn their heads, with their blurred grumpy expressions. They scowled at my superiority. The world was mine! There was nothing I couldn’t do!

I closed my eyes, basking in the moment as the wind cooled me down and the sun warmed me up. I opened my eyes and saw a dot in the distance. My face dropped. I could feel the wheels beneath me almost burning the tarmac. They spun faster than an electric toothbrush. There just wasn't time. I looked at the car’s dashboard. 140 mph.

I slammed on the brakes; skidding. It was enough, I was too close. I could see her outline and before I knew it, her body. I squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to see who I was about to kill. Frantically, I put both hands on the door handle. I shook it violently from the wrist down. The door was locked. I pressed a button to unlock them, but the car was still racing along at 90 mph. I opened the door, but before I could jump out, I was already a few feet from my victim.

It was a woman. A poor, innocent looking woman. I may as well be running over a child! She has a baby face, her large eyes widening as she lifted her head from her car's hood. I could almost see it from her view - a yellow sports car charging at her, like a raging bull. She hadn’t a chance �" she couldn’t jump, it was split seconds. All I could do was close my eyes tight...

Reviews

[Sarah H. (Shadow Mage)]

This is a really great story and has magnificent imagery.

[Persona]

Thank you.

[Sarah H. (Shadow Mage)]

You're welcome

[Ashleigh]

I love how you described everything in this. It was so detailed and I had a clear picture of what was happening. Whihc was kind of sad and emotional. I really enjoyed this. Great writing.