To The Stars

A Story by amberwrites

They all got it in the end. Some lived, some died, but every member of the Drago family contracted this thing. The doctors gave up trying, choosing to keep them hidden instead. Freya chose freedom.

Freya nodded absentmindedly to the doctor, she really should be paying attention but she had lost the motivation five years ago. She’d been having these monthly visits from Dr.Simpkin since she turned 6 and she’d been living in this damn hospice since before then. See, the Drago family aren’t like most families. They’re cursed. Well, cursed isn’t exactly accurate, they have a hereditary disease. The doctors don’t know what to make of it. They don’t even have a name for it. So they built the Drago Hospice and stuck every last Drago they could find in it. It’s pretty basic, like a hotel almost. A cafeteria, living room, kitchen, laundry room and classroom make up downstairs. The next few floors are just bathrooms and bedrooms. It’s all so basic and Freya couldn’t stand it anymore. She’s not even allowed outside the gates. Just in the back garden which consists of a few metres of grass, some flowers and a big transparent tent sealing them in like a bubble. And the garden even had a schedule. No one is allowed to be outside past 5pm and Freya found it unjust to say the least but no matter how long she talked with Dr.Simpkin about it, she got nowhere.

So that was her life. Sleep, eat, learn, eat, sleep and repeat. The only highlight of her day was when she got a delivery of books. She lost herself in their dream worlds and coffee stained pages. They weren’t in the best of condition but the words were legible and that’s all that mattered to her. These deliveries came weekly but it wasn’t enough. She burned through the books too quickly the doctor told her but she couldn’t be bothered to care. They were her only escape.

“…positive,” the doctor finished and Freya blinked her golden brown eyes. Outside they shone like sunlight through shimmering whiskey. Flecks of hazel nut brown circled her iris, they were admittedly, pretty. But under the florescent light of the living room, they were dull, a yellowish brown. This house sucks the life out of everything, Freya thought to herself as the doctor looked at her disapprovingly.

“You tested positive last night, Freya. I think you should take this seriously,” Dr.Simpkin chided.

“I’ll be fine. There’s a 10% survival rate right? I’m young, I’ll pull through,” Freya insisted, she knew what was coming next.

“I’m going to have to take the books.”

“You don’t even know if that helps. This is all just speculation! Do you know what living here is like? I should be out there, making friends, writing my own stories. You can’t take away the one thing I have here,” Freya Evangelina begged, they were the only thing keeping her sane. Living in a house full of dead men walking wasn’t exactly great for her mentality. The salt and pepper hair swayed as he shook his head negative.

“There’s nothing to be done,” the frosty blue eyes bored into hers, daring her to challenge him. “You’ve got family. They are your friends are they not?” Freya snorted at that.

“Did you mean my mum shuffling to the cafeteria with the sunken eyes or my father in the ground? What about my sister on life support or my cousin who is currently attached to an IV and on permanent bed rest? Waste of IV if you ask me. There is nothing to be done and you know it. You’re just waiting until the Drago’s die out so you can burn this place to the ground,” her fiery hair fell over her shoulders in curls as she leaned forward, eyes not leaving the doctor’s once. “You are not taking my books.”

“It’s already been done,” Dr.Simpkin had the audacity to smirk, fake sympathy playing on his face. Freya didn’t know if he’d always been such an a*****e. Maybe the house sucked the life out of him too. She didn’t care enough to find out, already halfway up the stairs. She barrelled down to the corridor until she got to room 17.

The place was stripped of her books just as the smug doctor had told her. The piles that used to cover the walls were gone. It felt so bare. All the sterile white that was once covered came like a freight train to the stomach. It was different. It was another reminder that this was no home, it was a hospital. There was shock, an abundance of shock. For years she’d refused to accept that this wasn’t hers, not really. Now it was shoved in her face. The shock was quickly fading replaced with anger. She sat on her bed and stared at the wall for hours. She didn’t come to dinner. It was childish, god it really was, but that didn’t matter. Her safety blanket was gone and now the cold white walls were closing in. The lack of natural light due to the absence of a window unnerved her now though she’d never before realised its peculiarity. She was stuck in a fish bowl, one without castles and quirky flags. It was just a glass globe and she couldn’t breathe.

That night Freya lay awake clutching her duvet tightly to stop herself from boiling over with rage. It was the first time in a long time she hadn’t fallen asleep with a book. She wasn’t even sure how to get to sleep in this situation.

“How the hell do people sleep without books?” Freya whispered to herself, trying to replay her most recent read in her mind. It wasn’t the same.

“Closing your eyes is traditional,” a whisper replied.

She span around, eyes squinting in the dark to find the source. Her lamp was turned on bathing the room in a golden glow. A guy was sitting in a chair next to her bed, smiling confidently, a hand rising in a small wave. Her fist replied for her.

“OW, what on earth was that for?” the boy cried. He couldn’t be serious.

“I don’t know ask the intruder watching me sleep!” Freya exclaimed, legs dangling over the edge of her bed swinging agitatedly.

“You weren’t sleeping,” he pointed out, still clutching his nose.

“Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?” she hissed, looking at the door to her right nervously.

“I was walking by and it looked like a nice house.”

“You were going to rob us?”

“Nah, I just wanted to look.”

“So you just strolled in and decided to take a seat.”

“Yeah.”

Freya rubbed her temples with her slender fingers. She couldn’t believe this guy. It occurred to her that she hadn’t yelled for the doctors yet.

“Why can’t you read?” he asked, head tilting. His ocean blue eyes stared into hers, trying to pull an answer out of her lips.

“I’m not answering your questions,” she averted her eyes and tilted her chin up.

“Yes you are.”

“Okay, I am but not because you want me to,” Freya slumped and sighed.

“I know. It’s because you’re lonely,” he nodded as if he understood, Freya wanted to use her small supply of optimism but the pessimism came in buckets.

“Yeah whatever dude. In case you didn’t read the sign above the lock you were picking, this is the Drago Hospice. I’m Freya Evangelina Drago. One of the mystery disease suffers. I’m not allowed to read so my brain relaxes, spends its time fixing me instead. It’s bullpoopy,” she picked at the blanket, was this some state secret? Well if it was it was Dr.Simpkin’s fault for not telling her. The guy smiled.

“Bullpoopy?” his short, styled dark hair got mussed as he ran a hand through it, laughing quietly.

“It’s not polite to swear in public,” Freya glared as he wiped away tears of laughter.

“No, no you’re right. So serious question, are you contagious?” the boy sobered immediately. Freya rolled her eyes.

“It’s hereditary not the flu. Now my questions. What’s your name?”

“Don’t laugh,” he shifted, the lamp illuminated his red cheeks quite clearly.

“Tacito Ficella. Most people call me Tack. Well, I call me Tack.” Freya shook his hand.

“Nice to meet you Tack even under these…odd circumstances. In case you didn’t catch it the first time during my tragic backstory explanation, I'm Freya Evangelina Drago.”

“This is it for you then? Pale walls and doctors’ appointments?” Tack looked around sadly.

“Exciting I know. I think you’re the first person I’ve seen in real life that hasn’t been related to me or a doctor.”

“I’m honoured,” Tack bowed and Freya rolled her eyes again, yawning.

“I should sleep,” Freya finally admitted, looking to the industrial clock on the wall. She really should sleep.

“Sure thing, remember though. Closing your eyes is essential in the process us outside people call temporary unconsciousness,” he winked and stood. Freya blew out an annoyed breath.

“Are you coming back tomorrow?” she asked in the most nonchalant way she could manage, she was not going to be hopeful. Hopefulness lead to no books and a terminal disease, she’d learned her lesson.

“Oh, I don’t know. There may be other interesting hospice’s to lock pick,” Tack smiled, sapphire eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Bye, Tack,” Freya huffed and threw herself down on her pillow, long waves of hair surrounding her like a halo. The door clicked shut and Freya closed her eyes and slept.