d2 . finn olsen

Maybe it was a lie when they told you that it would get better.

It certainly never felt like it got better, not when the doctors told you you had cancer, not when they took your left leg, not when they promised it was almost gone. This time, they’d say, that'll be the last round of chemo, we almost have it.

But that was before the rebellion, before the segregation and destruction of the familiarity to a shift of a horrifying new norm. You can feel it, the ache of its deathly touch as it spreads through your body. It used to scare you, a foreboding shadow that hung over your head, like the hand of the grim reaper resting on your shoulder. But in time, you grew less weary and more comfortable in its presence. In the end, the grim reaper is not the one that kills you, it is the kindness of your soul as it leads you to whatever plane of existence comes next.

You can remember the look of complete and utter devastation on your mother’s face when she came home the evening when there was nothing left to help you. The tears that welled in her eyes as she knelt down beside you, fingers entwining themselves with yours as she promised to find another way to battle this with you. In this fight, it's not you vs. someone else, it's you against your own body. Grit against a strength and power you cannot even fathom, because you cannot see it.

She didn’t want to lose you, but it wasn’t her choice to make. Whatever evil had decided that this was the burden you’d bare, had made that for you.

When your name is called it reminds you of the months and years you'd spent in the hospital. You're unfazed, and your lips move before you can stop them, "Finn Olsen, eighteen years old, the third of march-"

Ah, you think, numbness creeping into your veins as a world filled with colour turns to stare at you. It's not a doctor confirming your identity before they stab you with another needle. You're wrong, it's the sound of your name being called out loud one last time.

You're so familiar with the way it sounds, like a promise on death's lips, that this feels no different. How many times had you turned your gaze to a doctor with sad dull eyes? Indifference melting across their expression only moments later as they informed you that they hadn't beaten it. The cancer was back.

There's a difference here. An enemy takes shape in front of you, and when you step forwards on your prosthetic leg, you feel the weight of a war you had already fought. Another step and that deep, painful ache spreads through your lower body, tendrils of pain reaching for your chest.

Two years, it had been since your last treatment.

You wonder, dark circles under your eyes, will this new horror kill you before the old does?