Cancer

• Lara Meyer, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2021

The incessant ticking of a clock, the rattling of weary fingers on keyboards provides a backdrop of tedium for which night-shift is renowned. The minute amusement of the outside world through a window is all but gone in the night, replaced only by inky black. The long tendrils of exhaustion tug at the corners of my consciousness. Sculptors of my mind, they mould and manipulate, beckoning me to sleep. Sooner or later I would give into them, had a fateful telegram not called me to attention.

The information held by the telegram was neither welcome, nor expected. The uneventfulness of the journey to the hospital paired with fear of the unknown, creates a barrier of angst. The barren, hopeless walls of a hospital render an environment a perfect contemplational blank. Might it not be a hospice for my hopes and dreams? To slowly release the perfect sanctions guarding oneself from misery.

Cancer they say. The miniscule, invisible grim reaper without a scythe. He creeps around unseen, wreaks havoc and destroys his chosen host. How can such a miniscule creature, bring down the object of my heart’s desire, so senselessly and emotionlessly send all I love spiralling down. Their cruel hands, leave their prey a month to grieve.

My Lilly, when she rises, she’s weak and barely stands. Her caramel skin is papery, veins travel like spilt ink, down thin forearms, to cold fingers. Her eyes are dull and glazed, but still exuding such determined air. “Frederick.” Despite her weakened state, her voice is melodious. “Let us leave. I want to see the world, share it with our daughter.”

My daughter sleeps oblivious, swaddled in soft cloths. Ignorance is blessing, Hope knows not yet of pain. Two months old and innocent, soft fingers always reaching. Her face is bright and unaware, the youthful curiosity of a Robin.

The dawn arises, fresh, and sweet, the lilting birdcalls from the trees. The rural town was pleasurably still in the early hours of the day. Alone with my thoughts, contemplation of sorrows requited. The timbre of the sweet rural town in the morning light was a pleasant one, far from the windblown monstrosity of the night. We traipse on through the town. Early risers flood the streets and bustling warmth befalls the place. The pleasurable nature of the moment overshadowed the lurking gloom on the horizon. The tantalising smell of wildflowers hung on the late summer breeze beckoning exploration across the vast hilltops. Shadows accentuate Lily’s cheek bones and the rippling creases of her forehead. Feather-light, the wind pulls her forward, overbalanced by a single gust.

Eyes slide over us, pointed disapproval clear. Lilly curses aloud her African-American parentage. Parasols and top hats turn against us, barricades against an onslaught. What offensive they seek to avoid is one of their own making. Bigotry is prevalent in little rural towns. They are burning ash and embers; remnant of a kingdom lorded by fear of the unknown. Prejudice is a cancer, it spreads like wildfire.