Young Writers Society

Chapter 3

I nod my head twice. My parents are standing beside what could possibly be my death-bed. They murmur words of comfort and reassurance again and again till I snap at them to stop it. They look at me; their mouths open, fury begin to build inside their eyes. Then their shoulders slump and they look down at the floor as if in defeat.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “I’m trying to deal with the fact that I have brain tumour.” – they both flinch simultaneously and my father whispers, “May have,” – and somehow, these words just worsen it all. I look at them, trying to make them understand and they do.

“Excuse me?”

At the door stands the doctor; probably 5o years old, balding, spectacles falling all the way down to the tip of his nose.

“Yes?” asks Dad.

The doctor comes forward.

“I’m Doctor Wilson,” He says, “and I’m a neurologist.”

Dad nods once.

“If I could have a word with you?” Doctor Wilson looks at my parents.

“Sure,” mom mutters and they trudge after him out of the door.

I look at my arm, at the drip stuck on it and shiver violently. How many articles have there been announcing people who have survived tumour? Millions and millions. But when you’re in that dreaded situation, you don’t think of the survivors.

You think of the dead.

The doctor enters the room with my parents and smiles at me reassuringly; I glare at him.

I’ve had about enough of reassurance.

He looks taken aback but then says, “I know the nurse told you. You are old enough to understand what I say. I am not going to hide anything from you because with your own co-operation, we’ll be able to find a solution.”

He tells my parents to sit down on the chairs in front of his desk and that’s when I realize I’m in the doc’s office; how slow am I getting? Blame it all on brain tumour.

“The x-rays we did in her unconsciousness showed a slight mark on the left side of her brain. I went through all her reports and well…

“I would request you to let Terri stay in the hospital overnight. We need to do certain tests on her to double check our conclusion.”

I close my eyes.

Today’s my third day in this hospital. I was supposed to be here just one night but the tests were incomplete and my stay is extended to five days maximum. I have dark, hollow circles digging under my eyes and this morning, when I looked into the mirror in my ward bathroom, I almost screamed. What came out was an alien-ish shriek which I ignored since I was too busy gasping. I looked like all the monsters from Halloween mixed together into one grotesque form; me!

I shove a spoonful of jelly into my mouth and grimace. Hospital jelly always tastes disgusting and this is no exception. Something pokes me at my side and my head shoots up. There standing right beside me, grinning oh so wickedly, is Emma. My brain stops functioning properly, I just stare at her like a cavewoman. This is darn impossible; my mind is surely playing tricks with me. Emma leans over and our faces are so close that I can see ugly scars on her skin, healing, though the left side of her face is hidden from my view.

“Hello, there,’’ she speaks in a harsh, scary voice that makes me flinch. “Long time, no see.”

Her finger touches the drip plastered on my hand and lingers there.

“You…h-how…” My fast breathing turns into harsh, laboured gasps and I shiver uncontrollably.

Emma laughs evilly like those wicked villains in movies and turns her head sideways so I can see her left side. I grimace, unable to help it. Loose flesh is hanging from her cheeks and several, blue pimples are burst.

“Let’s just say I got into a little mess there, ok?”

The door opens and in comes the nurse with two injections with thick needles. I look back at the place where Emma was and she’s gone, just like the movies. My mind accepts the fervently entering questions and I pick the most important ones; how in God’s name is Emma still alive? Could she be a ghost? Could this possibly true? Emma’s ghost come back to haunt me, seeking sweet revenge? After all, what is not possible in this psychotic world?