Uma Bhat

United States of America

High School sophomore with a passion for journalism, content creation, politics, and all things Sherlock.

Message from Writer

Stalk me at www.landublog.wordpress.com (group) or https://unbelievablyuma.blogspot.com/ (personal) ;).
I am also an amateur journalist looking for any opportunity to ~write~.
Insta: @_umabhat

Bucket List

June 30, 2017

FREE WRITING

1
Prologue: 

I have no idea when I’m going to die, but I have a pretty good prediction that it’s going to be sometime soon.
    Do I mind? No. Everybody dies at some point, and my time is just a little bit sooner than all of theirs. The only thing I do mind is the bleakness of the same, white, antiseptic-smelling hospital room that I’ve been confined to for the past two years. Maybe mom thinks that just being in the hospital will preserve my life somehow.
    But it’s not. Because I overheard.
    Mom is still sitting still in the slightly torn vinyl chair right outside of my room. I think she’s feeling torn right now.
Maybe I'm supposed to be feeling the same way, but for some reason, I just can’t bring myself to. There was nothing I had to look forward to, besides this room, the cake mom gave me after bland hospital dinners, and a single rose on the window-sill of my room being replaced every single day.
    “We thought the chemotherapy was helping, but it looks like it’s progressed towards her heart now.”
    “What does that mean?”
    What does that mean? 
    “She has a month left.”
    That means I officially have thirty days, twenty-two hours, and four minutes until I will no longer exist. And for some stupid reason, I am completely fine with that — and it scares me.
    The air conditioning blows against my bare neck. My hair is chopped off into a pixie cut, but miraculously most of it has been preserved. At least there’s one normal thing I can look forward to; combing my hair.
    I press my hands against the hospital window. It’s cleaned everyday at three pm, and right now it’s four, so I can smell the window cleaner as I lean closer to take a better look at the outside world.
    Even though the only thing I can see outside of my small window is the hospital gardens, people are still happy there. There are new mothers and happy fathers. Two or three people sitting in wheelchairs. Relieved kids, which is what I would be if the surgery, or the chemo, or the radiation therapy had worked. Right now I’m somewhere in between. There’s a thin line between denial and depression, and right now I’m drifting somewhere towards the middle.
    Will I just die? Will everything end in peace? Will I feel no pain? Maybe.
    But nothing matters because I quite literally don’t have a life anyway.
 
Prologue to a new book

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