No more dying

Lying on a bed of white, an annoying place to be, but the only place I'm allowed in my condition: Lung cancer in its final stages when it was found inside me. Music by some Emo band plays in the background from a CD in the player on the nightstand. A handgun sits neatly on the end of the bed. I look up pleadingly at my sister. She picks up the gun; it's a Smith & Wesson, I think.

The silent question of "Are you sure?" passes over her face. I hesitate. Am I? Without really thinking, I nod, regardless of if I am or not. She places the gun barrel over my heart.

It's really the only choice I have. Either way, I'm gonna die. Why not just make it quick and painless, rather than drag it out like torture? I close my eyes and whisper, "Now."


A horrible catashtrophe took place today at Regional Hospital. A girl with cancer was shot in the heart by her own sister, who then commited suicide by shooting herself in the head. The parents of the girls refused to comment, as did hospital workers on near the room at the time.


No more pain, no more cancer, no more bed of white, no more Emo music, no more, no more, no more.

No more dying.