This chapter is super short but there's a reason! I was going to make it apart of another chapter but I decided to split it into two seperate ones. Mean, I know! [You'll know why at the end ;)]

Unedited, so tell me the mistakes and I'll fix them.

Hope you like it . . .

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“Why were you in hospital for so long?”

I look over at Rick, his attention on his DS. There’s silence in the car at the question; mum freezing in the passenger seat and dad showing less panic.

I shrug. “I was sick.”

Rick looks at me, his stare unnerving. “You’re sick a lot.”

I just shrug, with no answer. I can tell him the truth—‘I’m dying of cancer. Want to join me?’—but I can’t do that. So I don’t say anything. “I am.”

“Why?”

“God hates me.”

Rick pauses his game. He looks over, looking more serious than a ten-year-old should. “I don’t believe in god. Is that bad? Macy at school says that you have to believe in god. She says I’ll go to hell. I think she lies about it though.”

“You won’t go to hell,” mum says from the passenger seat.

“Why not? Is hell real?”

“It depends on what you believe, son,” dad adds.

“Do you believe in hell, dad?”

Dad shrugs. “I don’t know.”

Rick frowns. “Oh. Well, I don’t think it’s real.”

“That’s okay. Everyone believes in different things.”

Rick turns to me. “So, god is why you’re always sick?”

“I guess.” I’d like to believe it. After all, god is the one who supposedly created all life. So, by default, he’d given me cancer. I only wish it’s true. I’d just been one of the unlucky ones to develop cancer.

Rick’s expression hardens, his usual happy face morphing into one of anger. “I hate god. He made you sick.”

Unable to stop myself, I wrap my arm around his shoulder and pull him into me. He goes without complaint, leaning against me. Smiling sadly, I kiss his forehead. “I hate him too. Don’t worry though. I’m okay now.”

He nods, completely serious. “That’s good. I don’t like it when you’re sad.”

My heart breaks for him. He shouldn’t have to be worried about me. He’s just a ten-year-old who should be worried about making friends. Not worrying about his sister. Granted, my childhood had ended at that age. But that was me, not him. He doesn’t have cancer—and I hope he never does. “I won’t be sad anymore, I promise.”

He just stares at me, eyes wide.

“Promise,” I say, holding my little finger out.

He holds out his own finger and I link them together. “See? Promise.”

He doesn’t say anything, just leans against my shoulder.

*             *             *

“How is he?”

My eyes cut to dad. He looks stressed out and I can’t blame him.

“It’s okay. I’m fine.”

He shakes his head, his hand running through his hair. “Until next time.”

I glare at him. “Dad. Stop. I’m alive. That’s all that matters. If anything else happens? We’ll deal with it as it comes. We’re strong, you know that.”

“I know you’re fine sweetheart. It’s your mother I worry about.”

I glance at mum, who’s asleep. I want to fall asleep but I can never manage it in a car. The drive to the hospital is always a horrible one. Just the spite me, someone made sure that our local hospital didn’t have an oncology ward. They also made sure that the nearest one to us that has one is four hours away. “I worry about her too dad. She’ll reach her breaking point soon.”

Dad sighs. “I think she’s already reached it.” He shakes his head. “Enough. I’m sick of being sad—and I’m sure you are too. This isn’t us. We don’t weep. We get over it and move on with our lives.”

I don’t say anything even though I agree with him wholeheartedly.

“Is Rick asleep?”

I look down and smile. Rick is asleep against my shoulder, looking more adorable than someone his age should. I brush some hair off of his face and laugh quietly when his hand reaches up and swipes at air. “Yes. He’s out like a light.”

Dad breathes a sigh of relief. “Goof. He needs the sleep. Amie was telling me that he didn’t sleep while he was at her house. He’d wake up with nightmares constantly.”

Staring at Rick’s innocent face, I’m once again reminded of the toll cancer is taking on my family. Leaning to his head, I whisper, “I love you.” He tries to get deeper into my side and I smile. At least he knows.

“We still have an hour left. What do you want to do?” dad asks, as he scans the street. He glares at someone in a car when they almost reverse into us.

I shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Do you want to talk?”

“Honest answer?”

“Of course. I always want honesty.”

“Not really.” At least not to you.

Dad smiles at me through the mirror as we lapse into silence.

I look around the backseat, trying to find my bag. Luckily enough, it’s right next to me. Without disturbing Rick, I reach in and grab my phone.

I frown. No new messages. 

Is it bad that I’d been waiting to see a text from James? It had only been a few hours. Did that make me weird?

I sit my phone down beside me and force my attention away from it. He’s busy, no doubt. He said he’d text me. He hadn’t said when. I’m so lovesick, I’m pathetic. Cringing, I look away from the phone and just stare at the scenery. Why did I want to talk to him so badly? He was just one of the many guys I’d met. Yet he was the only one I wanted to talk to. It was the connection I had with him—he was deaf and I was dying of cancer. We had something in common.

After a few minutes of staring outside, I just give up. My eyes keep straying to the phone, no matter how hard I try to stop it. With a sigh, I turn it on again. Still, no new messages.

I can’t decide whether or not to just text him. Right now, I want a friend. Sure, he was attractive but that doesn’t mean I want a relationship.

But . . .

If I text him will he assume that’s what I want?

I glare at my phone. Cancer was easier than this.

I grab the note out of my pocket and debate whether or not to text him. Finally, I don’t think about it and just send a text:

               You didn’t get to tell me your favourite movie. What is it?

He doesn’t reply.

*             *             *

Ten minutes later, there’s still no reply.

I re-check the number, making sure it’s correct.

It is.

*             *             *

“Five minutes left. Then we’re home.”

No reply. Still.

Why aren’t you replying? I wonder.

I look at the text again.

Sent 6:43pm:

               You didn’t get to tell me your favourite movie. What is it?

55 minutes and still no reply.

Sighing, I set my phone down.

I’ve scared of the one person who—in just a few minutes—has understood me more than anyone else ever has. 

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Ohhhhhhhhh ;) Cliffhanger.

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~ Littlemissflawed