Strolling down the familiar white and gray hallways that I’ve walked at least one hundred times in the past three years of my life, I stare sullenly into each of the rooms that I pass. I’m met with the usual sights. Children lie on long beds that are covered in pale, steril blue sheets as overly enthusiastic nurses tell them what a great job they are doing and that everything is going to be just fine. The parents sit by their children’s sides with forced, animated smiles that seem to say “You will make it through this. You’ll see”, but a practiced eye like mine can see the pain and torment behind their unsuccessful facades. I know those looks by heart. The ones that are given to you by the doctors, the nurses, and your own parents. Their wide eyes and bright smiles match their words, “You are perfectly fine”, but their eyes swim with pity, knowing that you are a lost cause. I know these looks because I have been given them for the last three years.

        I was diagnosed with Chronic lymphocytic leukaemia when I was sixteen years old. The news was obviously heart breaking for me at the time. Most teenagers are only worried about the guy they like or going to the mall or catching a movie at the theater with their friends, but I had to worry about something that most adults don’t even worry about most of the time. Death. When the doctors found the cancer in my body, they broke the news that it was a Stage C, meaning that I only have about 3-4 years to live if the cancer is not cured which is a relatively long time to live with cancer. Well, I’m nineteen years old now, and the ominous and ravaging disease is still overtaking my body with every passing moment. I am one of the unlucky people whose cancer never fully left. I mean, there’s been several times when things seemed to be getting better, but the rollercoaster that is life seems to favor fast, stomach-curling drops downward for me.

        I remember the look on the faces of my parents the day that the doctor broke the news to us as if all of this happened just yesterday. The grief and the horror. These three years they’ve tiptoed around me, never saying the words death or sickness, but we all know that I am going to die eventually. Two months ago at one of my regular appointments, my doctor told me that I only have about three months to live. My body cannot fight the cancer much longer.

        In the world, we teach our children that the good always defeats the bad. We teach them in stories and in movies that goodness will always prevail, and in some cases, it does. But what a lot of people don’t understand is that the good doesn’t win for everyone in the world. When people find out that I have cancer, they say that they’re sorry, they show pity, but they don’t truly understand what I’m going through. They don’t understand what people who have cancer or any other life-altering ailments are going through. They don’t know the true meaning of loss or the self consciousness that comes along with not being able to have long, beautiful hair. They don’t understand the physical and mental pain. All-in-all, they don’t understand death. The only way you can honestly empathize with a person like me is if you are going through the horror of the disease, too. So, for me, the darkness is winning. Goodness left my life the second the news left the doctor’s mouth and reached my young and naive, attentive ears.

        Most people would be horrified by the news that they are dying, but I am not. Honestly, I welcome death. When you’re in pain all of the time and you can’t do the things that everyone else does, it sucks. You get depression. You get self conscious from the stares of others. I know this because I have been living through this hell for almost four years. Some people hate needles, yes? So do I, yet I have to be poked and prodded by them regularly. I had to do chemotherapy which was truly horrifying for me. The machine is what I like to refer to as a dinosaur, and it makes a freaky buzzing sound as it does its job. Being on medication isn’t a walk in the park either. I have to take several different pills in the morning and at night before I go to bed. I remember I once asked my mom if there was a possibility of me having an overdose before I ever have to deteriorate from the cancer. She only glared sharply at me for even thinking such a thing and has watched me closely as I take the medicine ever since. I hadn’t meant that I was going to try to commit suicide. I’d never do something like that. I had just been curious.

        So here I am at another check up, trudging slowly behind the too cheerful nurse just like I have been doing since the day I was diagnosed. The bottom of my teal vans squeak noisily against the waxed, sticky floors of Jackson Hospital in Montgomery, Alabama. The long and strenuous walk to the plain, gray hospital room is always, how I describe it, like walking “The Green Mile.”

        “Right in here, Evelyn,” the nurse says with a wide, cheery smile as she gestures for me to walk into the room first. I somehow manage to keep myself from rolling my eyes, and I walk inside, plopping onto the cushioned seat by the wall. The nurse asks the same questions she does every time I come to my appointment, and I answer back with a monotonous ‘yes’ or ‘no’  answer until she finally leaves to get the doctor. Once she’s gone, I breathe out a sigh of relief, happy to finally have a few moments of silence with no doctors or nurses or my parents watching my every move the way a hawk watches its prey.

        As for my story, well, I’ll start by saying that my name is Evelyn Paige Miller. I’m nineteen years old, and I live in Montgomery County, Alabama. I stopped going to school after I was diagnosed with cancer because I missed too many days or whatever due to my many doctor visits, so I graduated high school by doing work on my laptop in my comfortable, two-story home. That’s nothing to complain about though because when I went to school, I always daydreamed of being at home rather than being trapped in the prison like walls of my high school.

        I’ve never had a boyfriend before. Who wants to date someone who’s dying? I long for that happiness, though. I long for the soul-mate I’ve read about in so many novels. I long for a fairy-tale happy ending to my life. I want to find my Mr. Darcy and live in my own version of Pemberley. I want to die as an old lady with my husband and children by my side, not as a nineteen year old dreamer whose life ambitions were dashed and corrupted by the inescapable black hole of death- A.K.A. cancer.

        In looks, I take after my mama with my fiery red, curly hair--which is now very short due to it finally deciding to grow back after years of chemotherapy-- and I have my mama’s same bright green eyes. My parents are Matthew and Sarah Miller, and I have a brother named James who is nine years old. I always say he was a huge surprise considering the fact that he is ten years younger than me. He always glares at me when I say that, but I don’t think he actually gets the joke. We may be small, with there only being four of us, but we are your typical southern family. Ya know, except for the whole cancer thing.

        I guess you could say that I am a total nerd. I love The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit more than anything in the world. I’ve read the books and watched the movies a least a million times. My friends and I are planning to see The Battle of Five Armies when it comes out in December, and I have already vowed that if-- by some miracle--I’m not dead yet, I’m watching the movie dressed as Tauriel. I know, I know, she wasn’t in the books but, hey, there aren’t that many women in the books or movies, and I’m all about girl power. I’d give anything to be able to live in Middle Earth. Or Hogwarts. Or Camp Half-Blood. Or the Galactic Empire of Star Wars. But Middle Earth is definitely #1 on my list.

        Reading has been my go-to these last few years. It gives me comfort to imagine and dream that the places I read about might just be real somewhere out there in the galaxy or in a parallel universe. What a great life it’d be for me if I was able to get away from this cancer and away from this life. I like to compare myself to Bilbo Baggins. I want my own adventure. So far it hasn’t come, but maybe my adventure will happen after death. I definitely won’t be fifty years old like the wise hobbit was, but maybe Gandalf doesn’t have an age limit on adventures.

        I can only hope that once I die I’ll get the peace I’ve wanted so desperately. Man, when I get to Heaven, I think I’m gonna ask God all the questions I’ve had during my life, like why does the weekend fly by faster than long boring school days or why did my yearbook pictures always turn out bad. Or maybe I’ll be too swept away by the ethereal beauty of Heaven and forget all of my questions. I mean, it’s not every day that you get to hang out with angels. I only wish I could somehow contact my friends after I’m dead so that I can confirm the crazy question we’ve always had. ‘Y’all, Jesus is hot. We were right.’ I think I’ll find the Long Island Medium so that she can pass on the message for me.

        I’m startled from my thoughts when the door suddenly opens and my doctor walks in. Bless his heart, he always looks like he’s high on crack cocaine. His gray-streaked brown hair sticks up in several places, and he always has a goofy smile on his face. His green eyes would be beautiful if the red veins around them didn’t take away from the sight. Maybe he really does do drugs.

        “Hello, Evelyn. How are you feeling today?” He asks politely. I’ve noticed that doctors all have the same deep voice that makes you feel at home yet uncomfortable at the same time, and he isn’t an exception to this observation I’ve made. They sound like counselors instead of the doctors they’re supposed to be.

        I hold my tongue from remarking with a sarcastic answer. Well, Doc, I feel wonderful. Dying really brings out the best in me. “I feel great,” I say quietly.

        He smiles widely at my answer. As if he really cares about me. I’m just another patient who’s going to die. “I’m glad! You’ve had a rough couple of weeks, so maybe things are starting to get better,” he answers cheerily as he scribbles down things on his notepad.

        I sit quietly as I wait for him to ask the next question. I have always been painfully shy, and talking with people I’m not comfortable around isn’t exactly my forte. Dying hasn’t made me any bolder.

        “Well, Evelyn, there’s not much left to say,” he says with a sad smile once he stops writing, “I estimate about one more month.”

        I nod, not really upset about the short time span left of my life. I knew this was coming. I’ve known that I could die any day now.

        “If there’s anything you need, you just let us know okay? You’re a strong woman, and I know that you have strong faith. I believe that God has a place for you in Heaven amongst his angels,” he says seriously. I’m pretty sure he says that to everyone in order to give them a little reassurance. “Do you have anymore pain medication left or have you run out?”

        “I still have plenty,” I answer.

        He smiles, “Good. You keep taking those like I prescribed, okay? I don’t like the idea of you being in a lot of pain.”

        I smile, slowly getting off of the cushioned seat and wincing slightly from the pain that shoots through my body. He stands up and shakes my hand firmly.

        “Thank you, sir. That means a lot to me. And thank you for everything that you have done for me these past few years,” I say honestly.

        “I wish we could’ve done more for you,” he says as he sighs and runs a hand through his crazy hair. At that moment, I see through his “perky doctor” facade and see through pure sadness in his eyes and facial expression. I guess that I judged him wrongly. I reckon that breaking the news of death to people and then watching them slowly die is upsetting for him. I know that I couldn’t do it if I was in his position and he was in mine.

        I nod silently, not really knowing how to respond or what to say to make him feel a bit better even though he should be the one comforting me.

        “Well, thanks again,” I say as I walk out of the door, the weight of my huge purse on my shoulder sending a throbbing sensation throughout my body.

        As I begin to make my way down the hallway to leave the hospital, I throw a quick look over my shoulder and see him still standing at the door watching me walk away. “Bye,” I call out and wave awkwardly, feeling slightly upset at the look of pity he is giving me, and I straighten up to my full height and try my best to hide the slight limp that I have as I walk.

        “Goodbye, Evelyn,” I hear him call out from behind me with a low tone of voice.

        And I can’t help but feel as if that one farewell is foreshadowing my quickly approaching death.

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A/N: Thank you for reading the first chapter of "The Prince's Visions". Please feel free to read and review. Encouraging comments mean the world to me. <3
- <3 -
   Josie