Short story I wrote, once upon a time.

Incurable

They say they don’t know what it is. “There is no cure…”,”There’s nothing we can do…”,”We’re trying our best…”, were the few sentences Michael was able to overhear throughout his last week in the hospital. Every day new doctors would run tests on him, but to no avail. He was so sick and tired of all the apologies he got from the doctors, that he promised himself he would kick the next one who said he was sorry. He was convinced that if it was one of their kids dying, they would try much harder to find a cure for his unknown disease.

It all started when he was in elementary school. His mother got a call from the principle explaining that Michael had just coughed up blood and needed to go to the hospital straight away. That was eight years ago. Everyday Michael lost weight, every day his pain got worse.

Unaware of her presence, Michael rested his head against the cold wall, waiting for the rush of pain to pass. It was another one of those nights; cold and rainy. He trembled and jerked as the searing pain burned his insides. It was another one of those nights; soon the nurse would come into the room and break the peaceful silence that he had tried so hard to obtain. Silence… it was the only case where Michael could feel at ease. Noise made him dizzy, which would eventually trigger the intolerable pain that hid inside of him. The rain tapped against the hospital windows without cease, the lighting illuminated the inside of the gloomy hospital room where tears ran down Michael’s face. Sitting on his heels, arms rapt around his midsection, he held his breath and began to count in his head; “One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi, five Mississippi”. His heart thumped violently when a hand dropped onto his shoulder. It was the nurse. His face went pale as he watched the nurse remove the needle from its packaging and dip it into the clear liquid-filled bottle. His mouth went dry as she lowered herself to his eye level to show him the needle. She took his arm, which was moist with sweat, and inserted the sharp end-point of the needle into his vein. He held his breath and began to count in his head; “One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi, five Mississippi”. She stood up, threw the used needle out, and then walked out of the room. Michael was alone once again, accompanied by only the sound of the rain. He crawled over to the window, his over-sized hospital gown scratched against the cold white tiles. Once he reached the window, he slid it opened, allowing the cold rain to hit his face. Within a minute, he was drenched. With his angelic blond hair pasted against his pale forehead, he shut his eyes for what he knew would be the last time. Enveloped in darkness, surrounded by nothing but the sound of the rain, Michael sat on his heels and took a deep breath. He began to count in his head; “One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, fou...”

No one cried over the death of the child. After all, there was no cure.