She sat alone on the hard bed, underneath scratchy blankets, equipped only with a pen and a pad of paper. Her eyes itched with tiredness; her body ached from all of the needles. She wanted nothing more than to escape the appallingly hygienic hospital bed, but as she was hooked up to a dozen machines at all hours of the day, that was absolutely impossible.
Blinking rapidly a few times she managed to fight off the tiredness that threatened to take over her. She may be tired now, but as soon as she put down her pen and tried to sleep, she knew that her mind would start to buzz, and then it would be impossible anyway. Not to mention that she dreaded sleep; it was then that the dreams came. The nightmares. She dreamt of a tiny alien army attacking her body, while another, more pitiful army of humans tried to fend off the beasts. They weren’t winning.
Looking up from her doodles and her scribbles, she wondered what was going on in the real world, away from the pricks and pokes of the nurses. She often did this, usually when the doctors came to look at her. She started when she received her first spinal tap. It was the most painful thing she had ever experienced, but it wasn’t the last. She imagined her parents and brothers sitting down to dinner. They were having Chinese food; chicken fried rice, chicken balls, lemon chicken, and of course, steamed vegetables – her favorite. Her best friend, Katie, was probably out with some of their friends right now, maybe a movie, or just hanging out at someone’s house. She missed everyone so much, but she felt awkward around them. Most of her friends acted like she was some sort of contagious disease, and their visits were few and far between. The only one who visited on a regular basis was Katie. She came every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. As for her family…well, they treated her as if she was about to break. She couldn’t do anything while they were visiting, they had to do it for her, and it drove her crazy. That’s why she preferred to be alone, to doodle, or to write.
Writing was what she did most of the time. It was her escape, her way out of the hospital. When she wrote, she could do anything she wanted; she could soar with eagles, or sail on a pirate ship. Anything was possible when she wrote.
But she was having problems even with writing. She couldn’t seem to get anything out anymore; she supposed it was all because of the cancer. The cancer that drained the life from her. The cancer that just wouldn’t give up. It was taking her, one piece at a time. It had started with her health, and at first she had been optimistic that she would get better. But then, it took more. She was tired all the time, and weak. She couldn't write. she couldn't do anything anymore. She had no doubt now that it was going to win. Even the doctors were sounding less hopeful when they spoke to her. And she had accepted it. She was going to die, and that was ok with her. She was sick of being sick, and if the only relief that came to her was through death, she would take it gladly.