You’re dying. Of a sickness, to be exact. It doesn’t matter which; all that matters is that soon, your life will cease to exist.
No one knows exactly when. It could be months, it could be tomorrow. You wish it’ll happen sometime after Sunday, because you were planning on going to a party your friend is throwing. You’ve already RSVP’d yes–it would be a shame to have to cancel.
No matter how many sympathetic glances people have thrown you, you are convinced you’ve made your peace with the end. And then suddenly, the moment comes.
Of all things to be doing just before losing consciousness, you’re standing in a lunch line with your friend. With a jolt, you see two of her, and then three.
You find it hard to breathe, and hear a distant voice asking if you’re okay. All you can manage to focus on is the pounding in your skull, and your blurred vision.
Did you just murmur something? It’s getting hard to make out. You’re probably just groaning–you can’t find the energy to speak coherently anymore.
But none of this is what’s going through your mind right now. What you’re thinking is something along the lines of, “Holy fuck, it’s actually happening right fucking now, holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck…”
The boys to the right of your crumpled body probably think you’re just dehydrated. The girls behind you are concerned. However, they’re more focused on your skirt, which was, during the process of falling on the ground, hiked up over your underwear. You pay no attention. You are unconscious.
Although, if you were still able to think, you would probably be disappointed that you will, after all, miss the party on Sunday. It’s all right. It will have been dull anyway.
Bianca Radulescu-Banu is sixteen years old and lives in Lexington, MA with her family.
Image courtesy of Roland Larson via unsplash