Member-only story
Do Not Go Gentle
Speculative Fiction
Ever since they found the first tumor in my brain, I have been able to see him.
Him. You’re already configuring him in your mind, imagining his facial structure and body type and even his clothing, but he’s everything and nothing of what you may imagine. You see, death angels change appearance based on the person glimpsing them. I see a boy around my age, a boy barely on the cusp of adulthood, a bit scruffy around the edges — but my mother sees a clean-cut college student who’s tutoring me in math so that I can keep up on what I’m missing in my calculus class. Not that it matters.
I’ve calculated that I have six months, tops, before I can barely get out of bed.
The doctors don’t want to say it yet, but I’m approaching the dreaded word: terminal.
It’s only a matter of time before I’m a prisoner in my own deteriorating body.
I want to make the most of it while I can.
~
“You’re late.”
Joss cringes as he walks through the door, carrying a peace offering — Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, my favorite. I feel the threat of my glare melting away right then and there, but I glower at him, letting him know that it’ll take more than a caramel latte to get back on my good side.
