Smoke poured out in one breath. It filled his space of the room and eventually it blew out the open window next to him. It had never made him cough so much before, but today was a special day. Today was a gruesome, dismal day. Another cloud poured out within five minutes. That same smoke he'd been breathing since he was of age to buy it. That same smoke that everyone else in the band had come to know and use so well.

That same smoke that would kill him.

Warm sunshine with a matching breeze invited themselves into the room leaving the man shivering. Together they danced through the curtains and painted the walls with a lion colored glow. Shadows were cast underneath the sunlight as expected; but they weren't the scary shadows you would hide from. No dreadful shapes or horrific monsters were made from them, they were simple, harmless shadows that kept you cool on days like this. They were the kinds of shadows that made you happy.

He was anything but on this particular day.

The monitor stood out before him and he observed it with a careful eye. Surely it had to be a mistake. He was healthy as a horse. Maybe he had picked up more than a few when their lead singer passed away but it wasn't anything unheard of among them. In fact, all of them had started using more than usual since that day. Why was he the chosen one? Why was he the condemned one? The monitor stood there mocking him. The picture clear as could be, but faded a bit due to the sunlight. The x-ray showing him what he never wanted to see, something he never expected to see. Something wasn't right about the picture, and only a trained eye could see what it was. The nurse had shown him, but he tuned it out, not wanting to believe it. If he didn't hear it, it wasn't true. Now that she had left to get some paperwork, he spent his minutes looking. Looking for it. The machine buzzed constantly as he searched, and finding nothing he frowned at it. It buzzed with life. Life he barely had. Life he was sure to lose.

I'm a machine. You're a simple human. Humans can get hurt. Humans can die. You're going to die.

Malcolm wished he were a machine.

Heels clacked the tile flooring as the nurse returned with the needed paperwork before they could leave. A copy was handed to Malcolm, and he took it with a shaky hand. The other was handed to Cliff as a reference, who was sitting in the little chair in the corner beside the exam table. Cliff looked at his copy right away, but Malcolm waited a bit. Whatever words were written on that paper he didn't want to see. They just told him he was sick and was going to die. After hearing it a hundred times from the nurse he naturally didn't want to hear it again. But in the end the words would just be read off to him, and so he took a glance; he knew how to fucking read.

At the top read a generic opening thanking him for choosing this hospital and welcoming him into the premises. A promise to take care of him and give him the best treatment available for whatever raging illness he had from the flu to pneumonia. Either one of these he would have preferred. Another promise that he would be handled with care and consideration and that his family would not have to suffer as much as they think, that everything would be okay.

Except that it wasn't. It wasn't okay. They would suffer no matter what some man in a lab coat made them think.

The next paragraph went on to explain in great detail the symptoms of his sickness. Symptoms that explained every sudden change he underwent in the last few months and that wouldn't vanish. The chest pain from August, the horrible cough from April, the rapid weight loss from June that had everyone including himself scared to death. The blood from last Tuesday...

His eyes skimmed down the page hoping there would be something written about other reasons for why all this was happening. That maybe he wasn't really sick afterall. It was just a simple mistake, the x-ray took a picture of something else or it wasn't clear enough. Nothing in his copy stated anything else other than what he was diagnosed with ten minutes ago.

A treatment plan was described at the bottom of the second page. The tests they would run, the side-effects he would endure, and the surgery he would undergo. None of them made his eyes light up. In fact, every word he came across ignited a spark deep within him. The last page was a questionnaire asking for a better understanding of their latest patient. Asking about the steps they needed to take to make sure he lived as long as possible before it got too much and he died. How to make it less painful for him while he was dying. How to postpone his death.

His head rose up from the paper as the nurse was speaking, her voice a fading static that he didn't want to listen to. But she forced him. "Sir? Are you ready to listen?"

Her voice was soft. Clean and clear, one that had never smoked a day in her life. He was almost jealous.
Jealous of a woman's voice! Oh, brother!

"Sure," he answered, not quite sure at all. The nurse gave him a grey look, one that told him it would be wise if he did. "Yeah, I am."

"First off, I want to say how sorry I am. I don't know how you're feeling about all this, but I can't imagine what it is."

"It's okay," he answered again in the form of a lie. It was never okay. The nurse half smiled at him while he gave her a full one. It was fake, but at least it wasn't one of pity. Cliff had put down his copy and gave the nurse his full attention. He would catch the details Malcolm would miss.

"Now, I know it doesn't look like it, but you're going to be okay. What we found wasn't much, after maybe a year of treatment you should be completely recovered." He should be, but probably not. Life doesn't give a shit what should happen. "Maybe less than a year."

Malcolm nodded. It was all he could do. Talking in his voice like rocks only reminded him further why he was in here. The cigarette in his hand also did a remarkable job of this. He held it between his fingers letting the smoke drizzle out, finally crushing it in his palm. He wanted to kill the flame before it killed him...just once.

The nurse continued to go on about how all the treatment would work and what he should expect. A lot of vomiting, was what he got out of it. His hair would look different, and most of it would go away. The hair he had let grow out every several months. The hair his wife loved so much.

Pain was also expected. What with the illness being in his lungs and all, it was only obvious. Malcolm thought death was the only thing he was afraid of; but the pain before it didn't seem any better.

Cliff had asked a question beside him. He didn't hear it, of course. The nurse answered him with something else he didn't hear. He didn't care to hear. He wasn't sick, he didn't need to know any of this stuff. Hospitals were for old people, those who were too weak to hang on any longer. They weren't built for young people like him, who still had plenty of years left to enjoy. Sickness didn't attack young people like him. They didn't exist. He wasn't sick.

After his visit, the two would go home and it would all be over. Write some more songs, record an album, go on tour. Everything would be back to normal. He'd go home and see his wife and kids, they'd all curl up on the couch watching a movie and get ready for the holidays. Christmas would come and the band would get so drunk off eggnog that they wouldn't recover till New Years. And after that they'd get drunk off something else. Life seemed pretty great in those few seconds. He couldn't wait to go home.

"So, this is every few weeks we're comin' in here an' gettin' this done?" Cliff asked. The nurse confirmed. "We...we won't be able to go to work for a while then."

"Maybe not touring, no," she agreed. "but there's nothing stopping you from writing more songs. If Mr. Young is even up for it. I believe he will be...it's not too bad."

Not too bad.

Not too bad, but still bad. Not going to kill you this instant, but just you wait a few months. Then we'll see what's not too bad.

"What do you think, Mr. Young?" Malcolm turned at his name. A fit of coughing drowned him, and for a few minutes he was undeniably suffering. The nurse gave him a tissue to cough into. It subsided shortly after. No blood. This time. "Are you ready?"

"Ready for what?" He hadn't been paying an ounce of attention. He didn't need to.

"For a blood test. Doctors want to make sure there's nothing else going on that we don't want to miss." Malcolm complied. They wouldn't find anything wrong. He'd be in and out in a few minutes.

After the blood test he was admitted back into his room where Cliff stood waiting for him. The nurse followed and after a few more words of sympathy, they were free to go. Cliff wanted to answer the questionnaire while they were there so they stopped outside the front of the building to get some fresh air. Not that it mattered anyway.

"Okay, have you ever had any illnesses like this in the past?" Cliff read aloud.

"No."

"Okay. Have you ever had a family member contract this illness or die from it?"

"No."

"Have you had any other symptoms other than the normal for your illness? If so, please check all that apply." Malcolm didn't answer. Cliff looked at him.

"No," Malcolm sighed. Cliff continued to look through the questions once in a while asking the other man for confirmation. There was one yes. He had smoked in his lifetime. After the fifteenth, he stopped answering altogether.

"I'm not givin' you a light," Cliff said when Malcolm placed another cigarette between his fingers.

"I didn't ask for one."

"So you just put one in your mouth just for kicks?" Cliff retorted. "I know you don't have none, and I'm not givin' you any." Malcolm rolled his eyes and put away his pack. "I ain't gonna stop you from smokin'. I can't really. But I ain't helpin' you do it either."

"Then don't," Malcolm answered simply. A silence fell upon the two men. The sunshine had started to descend behind the trees casting shadows of them as well. The breeze had picked up in the evening air, and cars drove down the street, with families heading home for dinner. Happy families. Without any problems...

Cliff removed himself from the wall of the hospital and pointed to the doors. "I'm handin' this in, alright Mal?" Cliff backed up slowly toward the building waiting for an answer. Malcolm finally nodded. He was alone. The city ambiance didn't do anything to clear his head. If the bassist thought this would be a quiet place to talk, he was dead wrong.

Dead...

A few minutes later and there were two men again. Malcolm took the cigarette out of his mouth and placed his hand in his pocket. Without Cliff's help it was useless. With Cliff's help, it was harmful. Either way he was fucked. "Your next visit is November thirtieth. Ready?" the taller man asked out of nowhere. Malcolm started walking as an answer. Cliff's car was parked in between two big trucks and he was gonna have a hell of a time getting out of here. Malcolm didn't mind. As long as he wasn't in that exam room anymore. "You okay?"

"Excellent."

"You sure?"

"Positive." Cliff shrugged and buckled his seatbelt.

"I'm surprised," was his reply.

"Why should you be surprised?" Malcolm asked staring out the front windshield. "We'll go home, everything will be normal again. I'm fine." Cliff frowned at him as he maneuvered his way out of the parking space.

"What the hell are you talkin' about?"

"Look, let's jus' get the fuck outta this place, alright? Gives me the creeps." The bassist let go of the wheel and turned to the other man.

"What the fuck are you talkin' about, Mal? It ain't gonna be normal once we go back home, everything's gonna change. With the hospital visits every few weeks, the medicine you have to bring home, the big time we're takin' off work... Damn these trucks." Malcolm made no comment. "I hate to be such a pessimist but it's not good news. You're sick, Mal."

"I'm not fucking sick," he growled.

Cliff threw a hand up and looked behind him to continue pulling out of the parking lot. "We'll stop by Angus' on the way then I can take you home. How's that?"

"What for?" Malcolm asked. "He doesn't need to know anything, there's nothin' even goin' on."

"He's your brother, Mal." Malcolm didn't answer. "He's been worried about you ever since this whole thing started, ever since you got that fever last March-"

"Why worry him more with a bunch of shit that's not gonna go away? Why tell him his brother's sick an'-an' gonna die tomorrow when-"

"You're not gonna fuckin' die tomorrow, Mal!" Cliff yelled, his voice cracking. "You're not gonna die at all, you heard what they said in there. In a year you'll be fine."

"I'm fine right now."

"With a little medicine and time-"

"I don't need their damn fucking medicine, Cliff, there's nothin' wrong with me. Take me home." Malcolm crossed his arms and turned away from the driver like a child.

"What about Angus?"

"Take me home."

"He needs to know, Mal, it's better if you tell him than a gravestone-" Cliff stopped short. He looked at Malcolm apologetically but even then knew he crossed the line. Way over. "Mal, I'm sorry I-I shouldn't have said that-"

"Take me home."

"That's not gonna happen, you're gonna come out okay, an' then everything will be-'

"Take me home. Now," he demanded. Cliff backed the car out and drove in the direction of Malcolm's house. His wife and kids were there. They would find out. They would find out why their daddy was always gone, why he was always sick. Linda would find out why her husband seemed snappier than usual, and less affectionate.

Angus would find out why his brother hadn't called in a while. He couldn't hide it forever.