Black Cord

A short little story about a young girl diagnosed with end stage melanoma, her fight to hold on to her hope, and to find her courage to let go and accept her fate.


10. ten. in pain and no gain.

I can't help it. I cry constantly. I'm sad, depressed, and I can't help it. I truly feel alone. I'm in a lot of pain because of treatment. My hair is the worst. It feels like it falls out, then when I grab what I think fell out, I end up ripping out hair.

I'm in pain.

I ache. I can barely walk anymore. The meds have made me sick.

It's been a week since treatment began. A week ago, I was fine.

Fine. What an abstract concept.

That's seven trips to radiation and I feel like my brains are going numb and flowing out my ears. I'm getting dumber, for sure. It's killing my brain; I feel like I can't focus and I can't remember things. I want to pull the freaking black cord out of me and just let the bad flow out.

I scream a lot now, especially when I try to sleep because I'm afraid if I close my eyes they'll never open again.

I don't know how, but I manage to collect some strength. Using the bed rails and lamps and window sills, I pull my self into the bathroom and look at myself:

Hair ragged, in clumps.

Eyes bloodshot.

Tightened skin.

Tear-stained face.

And pale. Pale like Casper the freaking Friendly Ghost!

I want it to be over.

I want it to be over.

I want it to be over.

I want to be done.

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