Creative writing task

He told me one last story. He used his aged, ruined voice like an old man’s hands to pick the lock on his past. As he spoke, I couldn’t help but ponder the injustice of it all. I’m 17 years old and I’m dying. The doctors say my time is measured months... if I’m lucky. My uncle had laughed at this; assuring me that he couldn’t count how many times the “professionals” had been wrong. I guess now he can count how many times they got it right.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. I guess it all started a year ago when my mother died. It was a hit and run. Suffice it to say, I was devastated, so was my father, although, it was always difficult to tell with him. Always a stoic man, my father was. Even during the funeral, his smooth face remained impassive. That was the first time I met my uncle, my father’s brother. It was the first time I realised I had an uncle, truth be told. This may seem odd to you, how can you not realise that you have an uncle? Lets just say my father and my uncle didn’t exactly see eye to eye.

“What are you doing here?” Even in a hushed whisper, so as not to disturb the other guests, the contempt in my father’s voice, for his own brother, was palpable.
“I’m here to mourn the passing of my sister-in-law.” Was the calm reply, it was amazing to think they were even related.

When I was younger, my father was my idol. Even though, looking back, he was constantly distant and aloof with me. I guess I never really noticed it because my mother was there to act as a buffer. Needless to say I was my father’s creature, I won’t say child because that would imply the man held some compassion for me.
So, on hearing this conversation, I mimicked my father’s contempt for my Uncle.

“Hello, I’m your Uncle; it’s nice to finally meet you.” He said softly.
“Why haven’t we met before?” I asked bluntly in the same hushed tones, this was a funeral after all. He responded with a wide grin that seemed to crack his face in half.
“My brother and I had a little spat shortly before you were born.” I nodded dumbly at this, trying to figure out how this man was my father’s brother. They were so different.
“My condolences about your mother.” He said softly. I snapped, I’d been hearing this all day from adults I didn’t know.
“I don’t want your pity!” I growled. He just nodded and slipped a card into my hand before moving his ample weight, with surprising grace, around the other guests.

After the funeral, my father wasn’t around much. As the child of a highly successful businessman, I respected that my father was busy. But, and this may have been grief making me paranoid, he seemed to be avoiding me. Often staying away for weeks at a time.
This isolation didn’t exactly help, but I kept a straight face. If there was one thing my father hated, it was needless crying. As a child if he ever caught me crying, he would tell me to stop whining and threaten to give me something to cry about.

A few months later I started to fall ill. It wasn’t much at first, slight dizzy spells, nausea and I lost a little weight. I ignored it at first, assuming it was exam stress. But I started to get worse. I would reach for objects and miss them completely, if I stood up too quickly, the whole room would spin, and I began to trip over non-existent objects.
I decided to tell my father, one morning to my surprise he was sitting there in his perfectly pressed business suit, reading the paper. “Dad, I don’t feel well.” I began uncertainly.
He shrugged, “You look fine to me.”
“But...” I started. He stood up quickly, before I could finish, and slapped me... hard.
“Don’t contradict me.” he seethed, and stormed off to work.
I stood mutely for a while, holding my offended cheek. What had I done wrong?

That same day I fell down the long flight of stairs at school. It’s natural instinct to, if you fall; put your hands out in front of you. For some reason I didn’t.
The trip to the hospital was spent in silence, with the ambulance officer pressing a cloth to the gash in my forehead. It wasn’t necessarily a big cut but head wounds bleed alot.
After the nurses had dressed the wound and taken a blood sample, I was left to ponder why my father would hit me. A few hours later (you gotta love hospital efficiency) a doctor came back, a small frown painted on her face.
“I’m afraid we have some bad news.” She said quietly.
“How bad can it be? It’s just a small bump on the head.” I said, confused.
“It’s not that, it’s why that happened.” She responded, quirking a small smile.
“I tripped?”
“No, I’m afraid in your blood sample we found traces of a rare, degenerative blood disease.”
“Oh...” What was I supposed to say?
“Your case is quite advanced, and we’re not sure if current treatments would work.”
It took a moment for this to sink in; I just stared mutely at the doctor who squirmed uncomfortably under my scrutiny.
“Is there anyone you can call? Your mother, maybe?” She asked gently. My thoughts immediately turned to my father, but he never took calls from me when he was at work. Then I remembered the card my Uncle had slipped me, all those months before.
“Is there a phone, somewhere, I can use?” The doctor nodded and moved off, returning quickly, happy to have something to do.
I slowly dialed the number on the battered card. I just hoped he would talk to me after I was so rude at the funeral.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Uncle?”
The voice on the other line was surprised, “Yes?”
“Can you come and pick me up from the hospital?”
“Yes, of course. Sit tight, I’ll be there soon.”

I was silent during the ride back home, my Uncle glancing at me occasionally in worry. But how do you comfort someone who has just found out they’re dying?
It was late by the time I finally stumbled in the door. For the second time in that day, I walked in on my Father, reading a stack of legal documents.
“Where have you been?” He slurred angrily. It took a moment for my shock numbed brain to register that he was drunk.
“The hospital.” I responded quietly. Too tired to endure anyone’s presence, I started for my room.

The next few weeks passed in a blur, I spent an increasing amount of time with my Uncle, who was always armed with a tall tale, leaving me in stitches.
I began treatment quickly so the disease couldn’t progress any further. It left me feeling sick and weak.
A few months later I moved into my Uncle’s place. I don’t think my father even noticed. It was at this time I was told my father probably blamed me for my mother’s death.
“Even as a child, he always needed someone to blame for when things went wrong.”
   
I enjoyed the move. My jolly uncle was a much better guardian then my austere father ever was.
My joy was short lived, even with extensive treatment; my disease was progressing at a dangerous rate. I was admitted to hospital on the anniversary of my mother’s death. The irony was not lost on me.

So now I lay here, listening to Uncle spin wild tales about his childhood. I can feel the life draining out of me.

I’m 17 years old and I’m dying. It’s just not fair.



The end