Fic: Cancer
Title: Cancer
Rating: PG
Fandom: Original.
At school the other day, we had to do a piece of writing (of our choice, it could've been an essay or a letter or whatever) on the theme of traditions and rituals. For all those interested, this is what I wrote.
Please ignore the massively uncreative title.
This place, it reminds her so much of highschool.
This place with the walls, bleach white and angry, the way they gossip when they don’t think she can hear. She can though, can feel as the razor sharp tongues slit open her chest, observe her organs with a skeptical eye and pretend to know what the fuck they’re talking about.
“Miss Louis?” and the doctor, she stares with wide green eyes, glasses slipping down the bridge of her wide nose.
“Yeah,” Tess says, and she rubs clenched fists over her thighs. “Yeah, sorry, missed that.”
The doctor, Sandra Ralf, she sighs, breathes in through her nose and out through the space between her two front teeth. “Miss Louis, is there any history of cancer in your family? The nurse says you were reluctant to give a detailed medical-“
“She was prying,” Tess shrugs, “none of her fucking business.”
“Miss Louis…Tessa, it’s her job.”
Tess rolls her eyes. She’s wearing gloves today, so when she rubs her forehead with angry fingers the wool leaves irritated red marks. “Just tell me what I’ve got.”
“Breast cancer,” Ralf says, and she leans over her desk, rummages through a drawer and comes out bearing a fistful of brightly-coloured pamphlets.
“It’s serious,” she continues. “We’ll need to start treatment immediately.”
“Right,” Tess says, and the walls, their laughter, their hushed whispers echo through the room. You’re fucked, Tessa Louis.
“We’ll need to remove your left breast.”
“Right,” Tess says again, and she nods, runs fingers through her hair.
“I’m sorry, Tessa.”
“I’m 23.”
Ralf, she sighs again, clenches the pamphlets a little tighter in her angry red fist. “I’m sorry.”
*
Tessa Louis does not feel like a woman.
Tessa Louis has been on chemo for four months and has lost thirteen kilos, a breast and all of her hair. She is 23 years old and has already gone through menopause. The doctor, Ralf, she says that she will never have children.
“How you feeling, love?” Michael says, and he rubs a hand over her bird-bone arm. Maybe, Tess thinks, maybe if she tries hard enough those shoulder blades that try to break away from her will escape; free themselves from the boundary of dead skin. If she’s lucky, they’ll take her with them.
Maybe she can fly away.
Maybe she can kill herself.
“Fine, Dad.”
“Course you are, love,” he says, and he’s strange here, cigarette dangling from his chapped red lips.
“I thought you quit when Mum died.”
Michael, he sighs, slouches onto the bed beside her and puts the cigarette out on the ashtray. “I did.”
“It’s cancer you can buy on the shelves,” Tess says, and really, she figured he’d know better than this.
“Might as well keep up the tradition.”
“It’s not funny,” she says, and her forehead knits, her fingers, they tighten in the quilt, “not funny.”
“I know, Tess,” he says, “I’m sorry.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“I know,” he says, shuts his eyes too tight and draws breath through his nose. “I’m sorry.”
“Where were you last night?” And she says it as quickly as she can, tries not to look out the window, where the raindrops commit suicide on mock-glass. Suicide bombers, kamikaze aircrafts, the clouds are dropping bombs, she always loved her history, and this is fucking Hiroshima.
“What?” He asks, and his fingers shake as he pulls another cigarette from the carton, the one with the gangrene foot on it, the one that says if you smoke whilst you’re pregnant, you’ll miscarry, you’ll kill your fucking baby.
“Where were you?” Tess says, coz she needs to look at something that isn’t drowned in symbols, metaphors, fucking irony. “I made dinner.”
“Rice?”
“Yeah.”
“I had it when I got home.” Michael says, and he runs a hand through his thinning black hair.
“Where were you?”
“For fucks sake, Tessa!” And he’s standing up too quickly, he’s kicked himself off the bed. He’s a fucking US commander, and he’s just realized how much shit he’ll be in when people find out he pushed the button on Hiroshima.
“I’m sorry,” Tess says, and she says it too quickly, fast enough that the words slur from her throat and it’s too obvious that she doesn’t mean them. “I’m sorry, I’ll stop talking.”
“No,” Michael mutters, “no, I’m just…”
“Yeah,” Tess says, “I get it.”
“I’m just sick of being the one to watch.”
“I know, Dad.”
“I mean, just, my father, Tess, my wife, my son, and now my fucking daughter.”
“I know, Dad.” Tess says, and she slams her eyelids down, pushes the quilt down over her frail legs, “I know.”
She moves herself over, pulls across the mattress, folds her head, her neck onto his chest. She can feel his heartbeat, feel every breath he draws with his fractured lungs, “I know.”
“I don’t want to look after people anymore.”
“I know,” she says, “I’m sorry.”
Rating: PG
Fandom: Original.
At school the other day, we had to do a piece of writing (of our choice, it could've been an essay or a letter or whatever) on the theme of traditions and rituals. For all those interested, this is what I wrote.
Please ignore the massively uncreative title.
This place, it reminds her so much of highschool.
This place with the walls, bleach white and angry, the way they gossip when they don’t think she can hear. She can though, can feel as the razor sharp tongues slit open her chest, observe her organs with a skeptical eye and pretend to know what the fuck they’re talking about.
“Miss Louis?” and the doctor, she stares with wide green eyes, glasses slipping down the bridge of her wide nose.
“Yeah,” Tess says, and she rubs clenched fists over her thighs. “Yeah, sorry, missed that.”
The doctor, Sandra Ralf, she sighs, breathes in through her nose and out through the space between her two front teeth. “Miss Louis, is there any history of cancer in your family? The nurse says you were reluctant to give a detailed medical-“
“She was prying,” Tess shrugs, “none of her fucking business.”
“Miss Louis…Tessa, it’s her job.”
Tess rolls her eyes. She’s wearing gloves today, so when she rubs her forehead with angry fingers the wool leaves irritated red marks. “Just tell me what I’ve got.”
“Breast cancer,” Ralf says, and she leans over her desk, rummages through a drawer and comes out bearing a fistful of brightly-coloured pamphlets.
“It’s serious,” she continues. “We’ll need to start treatment immediately.”
“Right,” Tess says, and the walls, their laughter, their hushed whispers echo through the room. You’re fucked, Tessa Louis.
“We’ll need to remove your left breast.”
“Right,” Tess says again, and she nods, runs fingers through her hair.
“I’m sorry, Tessa.”
“I’m 23.”
Ralf, she sighs again, clenches the pamphlets a little tighter in her angry red fist. “I’m sorry.”
*
Tessa Louis does not feel like a woman.
Tessa Louis has been on chemo for four months and has lost thirteen kilos, a breast and all of her hair. She is 23 years old and has already gone through menopause. The doctor, Ralf, she says that she will never have children.
“How you feeling, love?” Michael says, and he rubs a hand over her bird-bone arm. Maybe, Tess thinks, maybe if she tries hard enough those shoulder blades that try to break away from her will escape; free themselves from the boundary of dead skin. If she’s lucky, they’ll take her with them.
Maybe she can fly away.
Maybe she can kill herself.
“Fine, Dad.”
“Course you are, love,” he says, and he’s strange here, cigarette dangling from his chapped red lips.
“I thought you quit when Mum died.”
Michael, he sighs, slouches onto the bed beside her and puts the cigarette out on the ashtray. “I did.”
“It’s cancer you can buy on the shelves,” Tess says, and really, she figured he’d know better than this.
“Might as well keep up the tradition.”
“It’s not funny,” she says, and her forehead knits, her fingers, they tighten in the quilt, “not funny.”
“I know, Tess,” he says, “I’m sorry.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“I know,” he says, shuts his eyes too tight and draws breath through his nose. “I’m sorry.”
“Where were you last night?” And she says it as quickly as she can, tries not to look out the window, where the raindrops commit suicide on mock-glass. Suicide bombers, kamikaze aircrafts, the clouds are dropping bombs, she always loved her history, and this is fucking Hiroshima.
“What?” He asks, and his fingers shake as he pulls another cigarette from the carton, the one with the gangrene foot on it, the one that says if you smoke whilst you’re pregnant, you’ll miscarry, you’ll kill your fucking baby.
“Where were you?” Tess says, coz she needs to look at something that isn’t drowned in symbols, metaphors, fucking irony. “I made dinner.”
“Rice?”
“Yeah.”
“I had it when I got home.” Michael says, and he runs a hand through his thinning black hair.
“Where were you?”
“For fucks sake, Tessa!” And he’s standing up too quickly, he’s kicked himself off the bed. He’s a fucking US commander, and he’s just realized how much shit he’ll be in when people find out he pushed the button on Hiroshima.
“I’m sorry,” Tess says, and she says it too quickly, fast enough that the words slur from her throat and it’s too obvious that she doesn’t mean them. “I’m sorry, I’ll stop talking.”
“No,” Michael mutters, “no, I’m just…”
“Yeah,” Tess says, “I get it.”
“I’m just sick of being the one to watch.”
“I know, Dad.”
“I mean, just, my father, Tess, my wife, my son, and now my fucking daughter.”
“I know, Dad.” Tess says, and she slams her eyelids down, pushes the quilt down over her frail legs, “I know.”
She moves herself over, pulls across the mattress, folds her head, her neck onto his chest. She can feel his heartbeat, feel every breath he draws with his fractured lungs, “I know.”
“I don’t want to look after people anymore.”
“I know,” she says, “I’m sorry.”