"Tell me one good thing about death, Harry Styles, please, enlighten me," I snap, and the words tumble out of my mouth maybe a little more harsh than expected.
"Well, Beth, when you die, you will be free. You will be free from every care, and every evil thing. You'll be free from the pain in your head, Love, and the pain I've caused you. You will be free when you die, Beth, free like a wildflower."


2. 2

The drive to the doctors seemed long and endless, like it takes a billion light years just to take one turn. My heart is racing, and I can feel the steady, rapid beats in my ear. Elephants galloping, in my head. On my head. The pain is back, and I have nothing, no relief. The pellets are still laying on the floor of the cold bathroom. It seems like years have passed since then.


When I pull into the large hospital parking lot, my heart feels heavy, as well as the rest of my body. I just want to just crawl up in my soft, warm bed, and let the sweetness of slumber take me over. It takes me a second to get out of the car, but I do and I drag myself to the entrance. The rush of cool overwhelms my senses. The air conditioning is on much too high, but to my advantage, I have my disgusting pink cloud pajamas. I probably look horrible. It doesn't really matter though.


My name is called, and I'm brought into a small room. It's drafty, but there's no window in sight, the cool breeze pinches at my flesh, creating small goose bumps on my tanned skin. I have a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach, and my head starts to hurt more; if that's even possible.


The nurses' name is Gemma, I tell her mine, and she compliments me on the way the names flow together. Beth Westwood. I repeat to myself. Beth Westwood.


"How old are you, Beth Westwood?" She asks, softly, slowly pushing a piece of her golden brown hair behind her ear.


"I'm 20," I whisper, and she smiles, telling me something about how she has a brother my age. I nod slowly, she's trying to make me comfortable.


After I tell her all my symptoms, she takes to to get a PET scan. I close my eyes inside the tube, and I feel like I'm disappearing. Disintegrating into dust.



At 10:23 AM, I was Beth Westwood, the 20 year old girl with wavy red hair, and freckles splattered on her skin. Beth Westwood, the girl who wore her pink cloud pajamas to the doctors.


At 11:25 AM, I am Beth Westwood, the 20 year old girl with terminal brain cancer. Beth Westwood, the girl who will die in 6 months.


It was hard to listen when the doctor told me I have stage IV brain cancer, so I didn't. I didn't want to hear about how I have an expiration date, how my life will certainly end, sooner than most. I didn't want to hear about the clinical trials I could be on, or the surgery I could have. The Chemo, the radiation, they were all just words to me, not cures. I was going to die in 6 months, and I knew that, the doctor said it himself, so what's the point in even trying to live? It's not like I have anything to live for anyway.


My certainty in dying bought me a hospital room, on the 5th floor. Cancer ward.


I moved in a week later.

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