I'm not all that happy with this chapter but it's written and it took FOREVER so I just decided to post it.

It's unedited so I know there's a mistake somewhere. Sorry.

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“Stop pulling me!” I yell.

Rachel doesn’t let go, nor does she stop tugging me along. My breathing is uneven and I can’t catch my breath. She’s moving us too fast for me to.

“Rachel! We’re not going to be late! Let go!”

A few people look at us but they’re quick to look away. I know what they’re thinking—this isn’t their business so they’re not going to get involved. I wish they would. I feel like I’m about to pass out and I don’t even need a mirror to know that my face is red from exertion.

I dig my heels into the ground in attempt to get her to stop. It doesn’t work—the polished concrete floors of the tiles have no traction whatsoever. Again, I resort to yelling, even though I know it won’t get through to her. I’ve been trying to get her to stop for the last few minutes and nothing has worked. “Rachel!”

She doesn’t stop. Part of me wants to hate her because she’s dragging me along as if I’m not at the risk of my breathing stop. I can’t get angry at her though, as painful as this moment is. This is what I asked for when I begged my parents to let me attend school—to be treated as a normal teenager, not someone who’s dying. This is what friends do and I—more or less—brought this on myself. If she knew that I only had one working lung she’d stop. But she doesn’t because I haven’t told her. I can’t blame this on her.

Blackness starts to blur my vision and my throat constricts. In a last ditch effort, I blurt, “Stop dragging me! I can’t breathe!”

She stops—thank god—and turns to face me, a worried expression on her face. “What? Are you okay?”

Paranoia starts to set in like it usually does. Is she looking at me right now and wondering if my lungs don’t work? Does she suspect I have cancer? The questions race through my mind and I can’t stop it. Cancer is my dirty little secret. I’ve protected it and only told select few—well, only family. Worry always sets in when I even give a little bit away.

“Alyson, you’re red. What’s wrong?”

I say the first thing that comes to mind, hoping it’ll sound believable. “Oh, that. Um . . . a guy was staring at me and I couldn’t look back at him if we were moving so fast.” As soon as I say the words I want to take them back. She’s never going to believe it and I didn’t even sound remotely convincing. It sounded like a lie to my own ears. I’m proud of the fact that my voice doesn’t come out as a wheeze. I may sound like a liar but I don’t sound like someone who can’t even breathe.

She narrows her eyes at me and I ready myself, already coming up with an explanation on the real reason. Her words shock me though. “Is this the guy you always sneak off with? The one that you hide from me—the one secret you keep from me?”

Shame sinks in before I can stop the reaction. I have so many secrets I keep from her I can’t count them on my hand. I stare at the ground, unable to look at her, when everything she thinks is lies.

She laughs as if she’s just found out the best kept scandal in the school—which in her mind, she probably thinks she has. “Don’t get shy on me now. So who is he? Is he hot? Is he blonde?”

I’m still in shock that she actually believed the lie that her words barely register.

Rachel laughs, as if my silence makes it all the better. “One day you’ll tell me. One day I’ll find out who he is.”

You’re never going to meet that guy because he doesn’t exist, I think. I’m not against the idea of finding ago but I’ve stopped trying to convince myself it would happen. It was wishful thinking. I don’t know how long I have left and I refuse to waste my breath on dreams that will never happen.

Blinking, I force myself to focus on Rachel. I laugh, hoping that it’s a believable one. “One day I’ll tell you,” I say, ignoring my thoughts.

She smiles at me. “I know you will. Now let’s go—” The school bell rings and the smile drops off of Rachel’s face. “Shit. This is what I was trying to avoid. Now I’m late. Again. Coach West is going to kill me.” She sighs. “And now I’ve made you late too.”

I shake my head at her. “It’s okay. I have to be somewhere. Coach won’t mind if I’m a little late.” She’s one of the only teachers that treat me delicately. Even though they all know I’m ill, I get treated like everyone else. Coast West isn’t like them—she’s constantly checking up on me. I appreciate her efforts but I hate them all the same. I go to school so I don’t have to be reminded that I’m the dying girl. I can pretend that I’m like all the rest of them. I don’t know why she’s the one teacher to treat me like glass but I have a suspicion that mum had warned the principal—none too nicely—about my relationship with sport. I could barely walk with a struggle—running? Not a good idea.

“Oh, please, you know she’s only pretending. She feels bad because you suck at sport.”

I wince, unable to stop the reaction. Rachel’s words hit a nerve even if she doesn’t mean them in that way. They’re completely true—Coach West pities me, just like everyone else who knows I have cancer. Of course, she doesn’t know the details but the pity is all the same. I hate self-pity and I hate being pitied.

Rachel frowns. “Crap. I didn’t mean it that way. I’m sorry.” She shrugs. “You know me, my brain-to-mouth filter is non-existent.”

I smile at her. “It’s okay. Now go to class, I’ll be there soon.”

Rachel stares at me for a few seconds before agreeing. I watch her walk off. When she’s out of sight, I turn in the direction of the nurse’s office. I still haven’t fully recovered from the pulling match and I won’t until I get more air. And only the machine can give me that much.

*             *             *

When I make it to the courtyard, my class is there. I’m ten minutes late but I was used to being late. The teacher learnt to ignore it, just knowing I had a good reason. I scan the courts where everyone is sitting down just like we usually have to.

But something feels off. I can’t tell exactly what but it’s something.

Shaking the thoughts away, I walk towards the class. I feel like skipping. It’s rare that I’m not constantly battling with my body and when I’m not, the feeling is addictive. It feels like a high and it’s probably the closest thing I’ll ever get to being high. I already have one useless lung, smoking something will only kill the other one.

“Who do you think you are?” a voice barks.

I jump, heart beating faster. Who’re they talking to? I wonder.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” The voice is little more than a growl.

I look around, my eyes landing on a woman. She’s standing, eyes practically drilling holes into my back. I can feel them burning. I quickly look over her, not wanting to stare too long. She’s scary with her military-style hair cut, almost shaved to her head. Her eyes are dark and empty, like an emotionless pit. She’s so muscular she has to be a female body builder.

Self consciously I touch my hair, checking to see if it’s still there. Since I’d lost it those months back I’m always paranoid it’ll just go away again. Why this woman would voluntarily keep her hair that short is too crazy for me to even think about. 

“Stop checking to see what you look like and explain why you think it’s acceptable to be late to my class,” the woman snaps, glaring.

I blink in confusion. “What?”

My question only makes her angrier, eyes practically ablaze. “You must think you’re untouchable. News flash. You’re now. So sit down now before I make you do triple the work.”

I can do little but stare at her.

She takes my silence as an insult. “Sit down before I make you stay after school.” When I don’t move she snaps, “Now.”

More than a little scared I go towards the class, ready to sit down.

“I want you over there,” she barks, pointing to the corner.

Face burning I walk over, taking a seat. I look up and regret it instantly. The whole class is staring at me, some with pity, others with joy. I look down at the ground to avoid the stares, even though I want to glare at all of them.

Only now do I realise that my breathing is too fast. My heart is beating a mile a minute and my palms are clammy. I take a deep breath, hoping it’ll help me breathe. When it doesn’t work I close my eyes and sit as still as I can. It relieves some of the pressure on my lung but it doesn’t help much.

“Now, class, I’m Mrs Becker. Your teacher couldn’t be here today so I’m your substitute. If you have problems with that, tell someone who care. I don’t and I don’t want any complaints.”

The whole class remains silent which is a first—not even the too-cool-for-school pranksters are making a joke. Glad to know it’s not just me who’s terrified.

“Here is how this lesson is going to go: it will be a boot camp. I don’t want to hear whining or excuses. If I hear one complaint you’ll be doing twice the work as everyone else. If I catch you whining about one thing you’ll be joining Miss Priss over there, who think she’s too good for my class.” She points to me and I look down, avoiding all the stares at of the class. I catch Rachel’s sympathetic eyes and try to smile weakly.

Mrs Becker starts too pace, her heavy boots echoing in my ears. Every second she stops to glare at someone in the class, that person being me most of the time. “I’ll tell you a little about myself now since I know you’re all curious—” I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not, “—about who I am. I’ll tell you what you need to know and nothing more. Today, I’m your substitute teacher and I expect you to treat me with respect. If I ask you a question you answer with ‘yes Mrs Becker’ or ‘yes ma’am.’ You don’t say no to me or I’ll make this lesson worse for you—not that it won’t hurt any of you since you all need discipline. I want the same respect that I got from my soldiers when I was in the army. Nothing less.”

She pauses, glaring at me. I almost flinch away from her gaze. “I don’t tolerate disrespect of lateness. My punishments are worse than any detention you’ll ever get. Anything who thinks they’re better than me will soon find out that they’re not. I’m not here to be your friend and I won’t go easy on you. If you don’t know now, you’ll know when we start—you’re all flies and I’m the spider. I’m stronger, better and smarter than you in every way.”

Someone raises their hand and I can’t help but wonder if they’re crazy. Mrs Becker is scary and I’m not volunteering as her new target. I’m already her target. I don’t know how I’ll get through the lesson. I can barely running without almost passing out. I can’t do more work than the others. I want to glare at her but I resist. It’s already bad enough; I don’t want to make it worse.

“Yes?” Mrs Becker asks with a blank look on her face. Even with an emotionless mask, she still looks angry.

Jack, one of the pranksters of the class, swallows nervously. “Um . . . what exactly are we doing?”

Her expression doesn’t change and I feel envious he’s not a victim of her anger. It’s been a few minutes and the work of my oxygen machine has gone to waste. I’m at square one again with my lungs, any extra air that I had scared away from me. “Ma’am,” she snaps.

Jack frowns. “What?”

She glares at him, crossing her arms over her chest. Her arms are bigger than any guy’s I’ve seen, her biceps that size of my thigh. “You refer to me as ma’am.”

Jack remains as confused as me.

Mrs Becker snaps, “Rethink your question. Add some respect this time.”

Jack’s eyes widen and he rushes to say, “Ma’am. What are we doing ma’am?”

Mrs Becker’s expression morphs into something that resembles a smile—at least, I think I does. “Good question. First up you have three laps to complete. Any slacking and I’ll double it. For everyone. No one gets let behind. If someone comes last then you all have another two laps. You’re a team and you’ll act like it.”

Dread forms in my stomach. I can’t walk, let alone run.

“Second you each have one hundred sit-ups. Then you have one hundred push-ups. I don’t want to see any girl push-ups just because you’re all weak. I want proper push-ups without cheating or I’ll double the amount. After you complete those you have star jumps to complete. Same amount.”

The dread in my stomach turns to bile and I want to hide.

“Thirdly, you’ll all do another two laps. No slackers. No whingers.”

My palms are clammy and my throat tightens. Shit. Shit. Shit. This isn’t good.

“Depending on how long it takes you to do that, I may add in a fourth. If I see anyone trying to avoid a fourth round I’ll make it five. If I have to keep you here until the end of the day, I will. Don’t test me because you won’t like the outcome. I’d also like to add that I’m not going to go easy on any of you. I don’t care if you’re a girl or you’re weak.”

The class stares at her and I know they’re thinking the same thing I am: is she serious? I know the answer though. She’s completely serious and she hates me.

“Am I clear?” she asks, her too deep voice ringing loudly.

The class nods without hesitation.

Mrs Becker glares at us. “I said, am I clear?”

Again, we nod.

“You have three seconds to tell me the words I want to hear or you stay here longer,” she growls. When we say nothing, she snaps, “Yes Mrs Becker. You have three seconds.”

I’m quick to repeat her. Everyone else isn’t far behind.

She nods. “Up, everyone. Now. Three laps.”

I start to stand with everyone else but she glares at me, pointing to the ground. Taking the hint I sit, hoping my face isn’t red with embarrassment. A few people stop to look at me, most with pity but they move when Mrs Becker tells them to go.

When everyone starts to run, she turns to me, crossing her arms over her chest. “Do you have a reason you were late to my class?”

I swallow, unable to help it. “I was with the nurse.”

She rolls her eyes. “‘I was with the nurse,’” she says in disbelief.

“I can prove it. Ask the nurse. She’ll tell you—”

She cuts me off with a glare. “I don’t care why you were late.”

Then why did you ask me, is what I want to say but I don’t. Instead I just stare at her, hoping I don’t look as scared as I feel.

“What I want to know is how you plan on making up for it.”

“I—”

“I don’t want to know what you think. I decide how you make up for it. Not you.”

Is every question she asks rhetorical? I wonder.

“As well as doing three times the work of the rest of your class, you’re staying an hour after school to do laps. I don’t want any slacking and I’ll make you stay longer if I catch you doing it.”

My eyes practically bug out of my head with fear. “You can’t do that!” I splutter.

She only raises an eyebrow. “I can’t? Watch me.”

“But— but— you can’t!”

She glares at me. “Do you want to test me?”

I shake my head.

“I didn’t hear you,” she says to no one.

I have to force the words. “No ma’am.”

She stares at me before snapping, “Now go.”

I take a deep breath. I have to get through to her. There’s no way I can do any of the things she wants me to. “Mrs Becker . . . I can’t run.”

“Excuse me?”

“I can’t run,” I repeat.

I try not to flinch at the look in her eyes. “You can’t run. And why not?”

“Because—”

“If that’s an excuse I better not hear it,” she snaps.

I want to yell at her. More than I’ve ever wanted to yell at someone in my life.

“No excuse? Good. Now get up and join the class before I double the laps they have to run. I’d hate to tell them it was because of you.”

I don’t move to where she’s pointing, standing instead. “Mrs Becker, please, I can’t physically run.”

She points to the rest of the class, all still on their first lap. “You think you can make up an excuse to get out of it? What do you think makes you special? There’s nothing wrong with you except that you’re lazy and you don’t want to do it. Don’t pretend you have an illness when you don’t.”

“I’m not being lazy, I swear. I can’t run. I’m not trying to be funny—”

“That’s good because you’re not funny. If you’re not being last then what’s wrong with you? Do you think you’re so perfect everyone falls at your feet? I hate to tell you but you’re nothing. In a few years no one will care about you.”

I try to blinks back the tear that threatens to fall but I don’t stop it in time. Mrs Becker stares at it in disgust. She doesn’t realise how true her words are—no one will care about me in a few years because I won’t be here anymore.  

“Crying won’t help you. I’ve seen men with not even a tear in their eye when they’ve been shot before.”

Blinking away the tear, I force my voice to be even. “Mrs Becker I’m injured.” It’s the best I can do.

She doesn’t blink, nor does her expression change. “You’re injured? I see no broken leg or arm.”

“I—”

“Where’s your note? I was told that you had to have a note to get out of sport.”

“I’m a special case.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. “You’re special? And what makes you special? Are you prettier? Smarter?”

No, I’m the only one in the school who’s dying. I say nothing.

“That’s what I thought. Get out there. Now. You’re already a lap behind.”

Beyond angry, I glare at her. “You’ll get everything that’s coming to you.” Later on, I’ll admit it was childish but right now it doesn’t feel that way. I’ll be laughing when mum comes into the school. She’s protective and as soon as she hears about how I was forced to run three laps she’ll be mad.

Mrs Becker rolls her eyes. “I’ll bet.”

I walk off, hoping it won’t be too bad.

AFTER THE FIRST LAP I realise that wishful thinking doesn’t come true. Not that it’s the first time it’s happened. When I was younger I’d always wished that, by some miracle, the cancer would just go away and I’d be like every other child. Unsurprisingly, that hadn’t happened. And it wasn’t going to.

Of all the moments I’ve wished it would be true, now is one of the more dire ones. I’m sweating, my heart pumping. Everything aches and I can practically hear my lung going into over drive. Honestly, I think it’s just given up. It seems likely since I’m barely about to get a breath. To anyone else in the class, I sound perfectly normal. I’m breathing unevenly but to them I just sound like someone who’s unfit. That’s so far from the truth it’s not funny.

The only reason I’m still running—well, more like walking which is hard enough—is because Mrs Becker is behind me. I can feel her glare on my back. I know I should probably stop but I just can’t do it. If I continue moving I’ll pass out soon. Still, I don’t want to get yelled at again. Besides, even if it’s probably not good for my health but I’m hoping if I pass out I’ll get an escape from this. There’s no other way she’ll let me stop.

“Hey.”

I jump, turning around. Rachel’s right next to me, barely flushed.

I smile at her, not even trying to talk. I don’t even think I smile right—if my lips don’t even move I’m not surprised. I’m so out of breath nothing will come out; probably just a puff of air.

Rachel glances behind her before talking again, this time quieter than before. “Are you okay? She was pretty mad.”

I fight the urge to glare at Mrs Becker. I’m sure I glare anyway, just not aimed at her.

Apparently catching the look, Rebecca’s eyes turn sympathetic. “Oh, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

I can’t help but get annoyed. Those three words are the words I hate the most out of all of them. They’re a constant reminder of the fact that I have cancer. I’m always being asked if I’m okay. I hate being treated like I’m incapable. Mum is the main culprit. She’s always second guessing everything she does around me. I love her but it gets on my nerves. If I cough she’s there to ask if I’m fine or if I need help. Dad’s not as obvious but I can always tell when he’s worried—

Where’s the colour going?

The thought runs through my mind as everything starts to turn black. Everyone and everything starts to blur. Slowly it all starts to fade away.

Suddenly, I’m all too aware of the fact that I can’t breathe. There’s no air leaving my body.

“Alyson! Alyson!”

The shout is right by my ear. I hear it perfectly but I can’t see Rachel. I try to turn my head to see her but it doesn’t work. My head doesn’t want to move, just like my lung doesn’t want to work.

“Is she making excuses? Get up before I give the class more laps,” Mrs Becker snaps. Her voice is right behind me, as if she’s yelling in my ear.

I hear Rachel yell, “Stop it! She’s clearly not ‘slacking’—” she sneers the word, “—so get over yourself and grow a brain.”

A loud bang resounds in my ears and then pain erupts in my side. It takes me a minute to realise that my body has hit the ground.

Clarity rushes through me and I realise what’s going on. This isn’t just passing out. I’ve passed out to many times to count in my life. This is much worse. This is death.

“Ox— oxy—”

The voice that says the words can’t be me. It’s gravelly and nothing like I sound.

“Alyson! What do you need? Oxy what?”

Rachel’s voice is a comfort. I try again. “O— Ox—”

“Get up. I’m sick of you over reacting. If you want attention I’ll give you it. Now get up.”

I’m too exhausted to even get annoyed by Mrs Becker’s voice.

“Alyson! Shit! Her pulse is low!”

“I don’t care. She’s not getting out of my class by pretending to be sick.”

Rachel’s yell is in a voice I’ve never heard before. I’ve heard her mad, but right now she’s mad. It’s one of the only times I’ve ever heard her swear. “She’s not fucking breathing right! Get an ambulance here!”

“She doesn’t need an ambulance—”

As the voices start to fade, I want to cry.

How depressing, I think. Who’d have thought I’d die in the middle of physical education? Of all the places to die, this is one of the worst.

Before everything turns I imagine my family sitting around my coffin, crying over the daughter that never got to live. Will my body be tear-stained? I wonder. I don’t know if I’m crying but I think I am.

The faces of my family are the last thing I see.

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School's just started back and it's so crazy I'm drowning in homework and assignments. I'll try to post every weekend but I can't guarantee it. 

Thanks for reading.

Littlemissflawed