Unspoken Feelings

Short Story By; Jaycelle Zamora

It was last fall that I was told I had the Sickness. It’s been plaguing our land for years. The doctors have been working on a cure ever since they heard of the first case, but they were never able to find a real one until now. The best they’d had was a treatment. In their experimenting, they were also able to find a vaccine, but they told me it was found long after the Sickness first came into my body.

Apparently, the Sickness is a disease which first enters your body without detection, and the source is unknown. That’s why everyone now but the infected such as myself are always having to take the vaccine. The infected are being given treatments.

My family was overjoyed when they first heard of the treatment. I wasn’t especially. I’d just go back to living with them, just coming to the doctor every month again so that the Sickness could be managed.

The problem is that I didn’t want the treatment. And I especially don’t want that new potion, which the doctor claims will cure me. I don’t want to risk trying it for fear that I will keep living. Which I, of course, and logically, don’t want to.

I suppose I should explain now. It’s really quite simple, actually. When I was born, I was born different. I couldn’t smell or taste. My world is totally bland without them. Not to mention that I’m colorblind, so that even something as beautiful as a rainbow is messed up.

As a result, when I was told I had the Sickness, I was a little relieved. Though I could still talk and hear and see (with different colors) – and touch of course – my world didn’t always feel right. I’ve always really been a tiny bit excited about the way I’d die. I’ve really actually always preferred to die heroically; instead of from the Sickness, but I guess what happens to you isn’t always your choice.

However, I made sure that I would not receive the treatment when the option arose. The treatment was a shot, which I swore I’d never let anyone give me. Both the doctor and my family were shocked. My doctor thought that I must have had some sort of problem at home, and he left the room so my family could talk to me alone. My family rushed over to me and began to protest. The doctor knew well that, though I was over thirteen years old, an adult, my family would probably do everything in their power to convince me to do what they wanted.

I remember how little Thomas said that the Sickness had made me crazy, why else would I refuse treatment? Mother and Father begged me to take it, because, as Mother put it, “Both me and your father are too frail, and Thomas too foolish, to be able to survive without help from you.” I looked at her, staring at me, for a second before turning away to face the wall. I knew I was being selfish, but this was the one thing I’d always wanted in life: to leave it. I think they knew deep in their hearts why I did it, too, but were unwilling to accept it.

It wasn’t until this afternoon when the doctor came in with John that I began to reconsider. It started with the knock on the door, and the doctor peering in at me. “There’s a young man here who wants to see you,” he’d said, looking unsure. He must have told John about the cure. Ever since I’d refused the treatment, I’d grown sicker and sicker each day.

I knew that John would be coming to see me. He’d probably been waiting until I was nearly dead and he thought wouldn’t refuse him to confront me. I also wasn’t surprised that he wasn’t with my family, either. He was the only one I’d ever told about my hopes and dreams, and the only one who’d ever have a chance of convincing me – my family’s presence would only mess everything up.

"You are dying," he said, looking at me sternly.

"Your point?" I recounted, returning the look with a glare.

"You can't afford to die; there are several people who you are responsible for, not to mention me."

"If, in dying they die too, then that shows their weakness, not mine."

"You are not allowed to die. And you can reverse this. Why do you not?"

Yep. The doctor had told him about the cure.

"Because I don't like the feeling before it. I am not like you."

"I'll break your ribs, and arms and legs and force you to drink!" he yelled.

"And in doing so I will drown for I will not swallow." I looked at him sadly.

"Please don't die..." tears were brought to his eyes.

"I'll think about it." I said, looking at him as he turned away and walked back out the door. I knew he hadn’t been planning to shed any tears during the confrontation. It had ruined it, he knew, and he hadn’t bothered trying to convince me any more, or there would be no chance at all for his next, which he was surely already planning.