“You're sick.”

“I know.”

“Do you know how sick?”

“No, tell me.”

“You've got another day before your body begins to shut down- your eyes, your ears, your fingers and toes, and eventually, your heart.”

“That doesn't sound so good.”

“I wasn't finished.”

“Go on, doctor, tell me all the gory details.”

“Well-”

“Just do it.”

“In the next 24 hours, your white blood cells will begin attacking the rest of your body. This, normally, wouldn't be life-threatening. However, since you've ingested so much of that poison-”

“I didn't 'ingest' it. I'm telling you, it was an accident!”

“Hm, well whatever the case may be, the amount of toxins in your blood stream are so great that as the blood cells lose their stability, the effects will be visual-”

“What do you mean, visual?”

“Well, there will be, shall we say-”

“Don't be delicate.”

“It will look as if your skin is erupting. There will be sores along your body, and the pain will be great.”

“How great?”

“Just, just great.”

“It doesn't sound so good, does it doctor?”

“No, it doesn't.”

“Is there anything you can do to fix it?”

“I’m afraid the effects are irreparable.”

“So what do you recommend I do?”

“There's nothing to do. Go home, drink a coke, spend time with your family. When it starts to hurt, go lay down.”

“How long will it take for me to die?”

“Probably another few days.”

“In pain?”

“Yes.”

“Great. Thank you doctor.”

“Of course. Hey- I'm sorry.”

“I know.”

I left the doctor's office with my mom, feeling my heart pounding in my ears, strong and healthy. She asked me what the doctor had said. I shrugged mutely, keeping my eyes fixed on the road, not wanting her to see them glisten.

The ride home was silent. I stared out the window, thinking, just thinking. If only I hadn't- it was useless now. But still, in all my years of life, short as they are, I don't think I’ve ever done something with worse consequences. Ha, of course with no worse consequences! I'd never died before.

Death. The sound of it was bitter as I mouthed it. Death. I had one day left. One measly day before I succumbed to the most intense pain I’d ever felt. What could I do in that one day?

I suppose I could do as the doctor suggested, spend time with my family, say my final farewells to my friends. Final farewells. Odd.

“So, are you going to be all right?” the timid question caught me off guard. I looked over at my mother, whose care-lined face was wrinkled with worry.

“Sure, mom, I’ll be fine. Just fine. You know mom, I love you. You know that, don't you?

“Of course I do sweetie. I love you too.”

I swallowed the rising lump in my throat. But before I could stop it, a single tear slid down my cheek. I wiped it away angrily. I wasn't weak. I didn't cry. I was strong. Death.

Another tear slipped down. One day. And another. 24 hours. Before long, I was sobbing silently, hiding my face from my mother. She didn't take long to notice.

“What's wrong, sweetie?”

“Nothing mom, nothing. I'm fine, just keep driving.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. Just go.”

“I don't think so,” she pulled over, “what's wrong? Did the doctor say something?”

“No, no he didn't it's just- I- well-” and before I knew it, I spilled the whole sorry, sad, story. Midway through my mother was crying harder than me, her frail body shaking with the intensity of her sobs.

“Are you sure?” she asked my, her voice choking on the words.

“Yes.”

“Just one day?”

“Just one day.”

She wailed. It was a hollow, unearthly sound, one I had never heard from her mouth, and god help me, I should never hear it again. It was the sound of a mother's grief.

“I'm sorry mom.” she didn't hear me. “you want me to drive?” No response, “Ok.” I opened the passenger door and got out, walking to the driver's side. I pulled out her door and motioned her out. No response. “Mom, come on, we have to get home.” she didn't look at me, her body hunched over the steering wheel, her face hidden in her hands. “Mom.” I sighed and reached over to unbuckle her seat belt, letting it retract quickly, not even caring when it slapped my hand, leaving a bright red welt. One day.

I picked her up easily, maneuvering her out of the seat, pulling her along the side of the car, directing her to the passenger's side. She didn't look up the whole time, her body limp in my grip as she cried.

I got back into the car, turning the keys, feeling the engine roar to life at my touch. “Ready, mom?” No response. I pulled back onto the road checking for oncoming cars.

Why did I check for cars? I only had one day anyway. Maybe it was better to die now, in an accident. Then they could at least say they hadn't seen it coming. Christ.

I drove on autopilot, my grieving mother beside me, my mind whirling. Somewhere, a part of me still believed it was a nightmare, that any second I would wake up, in my own bed, with nothing but a cold sweat and uncomfortable clothes. The rest of me knew this was foolish.

We walked into the house, me half-dragging my mother, tears once again rolling down my face. My father was seated at the kitchen table, working, like always.

At the sight of my mother, he shot to his feet, ignoring the paper that floated to the floor like forgotten dreams.

“What's wrong?” he asked anxiously, looking from my tear-streaked face to my mother's. “I said, what's wrong?”

“Just take care of her dad, ok?” I handed her to him gently before turning away, heading to my room. He accepted her without protest, sitting her down and whispering in her ear. I paused.

“Hey dad?”

“What?”

“You know I love you, don't you?”

“Sure thing.” he was distracted. I opened the door to my room, its familiar sight greeting me, its familiar ways a comfort. I sat down on my bed looking about. One day.

I don't know how long I sat there, staring at my things, remembering. There was my ribbon for winning the sixth grade science fair. There was the hat I wore all summer for a bet- earning me twenty dollars and a greasy head of hair. Good memories. Good times.

Death. It seemed almost unreal. I wished it was unreal. I picked up the phone and dialed, calling my best friend of ten years. It rang three times before she picked up, her perky voice still unaware of my plight.

“Hello?”

“Leah?”

“Yeah?”

“It's me...”

“Hey! Just the gal I was looking for! I have the grossest story to tell you- I swear you won't even believe it-”

“Hey, Leah, I’ve got something to tell you.”

“Is it more important than my awesome story?”

“Kind of.”

“Ok, go,” her voice was impatient, ready to tell her story, she barely had ears for mine.

“Well, I- hey Leah?”

“Yeah?”

“You know I love you, don't you?”

“Don't be silly, I know it.”

“Ok, well- I’m sick.”

“Sick?”

“Yeah.”

“What kind of sick?”

“I have one day to live.”

“Oh god. You've got to be kidding, right? Tell me you're kidding.”

“I wish I was.”

“I’m coming over.”

“Ok.”

I hung up the phone slowly, wondering who else to call. I had relatives, but all were too far away- it would be better for my parents to call them after I had passed.

Passed, what a wimpy word. After I had kicked the bucket. After I had gone on. After I had gone to the great litter box in the sky. After I went to see big blue. Stupid euphemisms created to deny what was really happening. After I died. After my soul left my withered, torn body, to escape to a better place. After I ceased to be.

Death.

There was a knock on my door. It opened before I could speak. My dad stood in the doorway, his face a mottled red, tears streaming unabashedly down his face. They ran down and soaked the neckline of his white collared shirt, turning it see-through.

“One day?” he asked, desperation in his eyes, begging me for a different answer.

“One day.”

“Jesus Christ.” he seemed almost to buckle, his features sagging.

“I’m sorry dad.” no response. He stood frozen in my doorway, his eyes focused on a faraway place, before his mouth opened, and he drew a breath, his lungs filling with sweet air, his jaw working to make noise.

“Dad I-” before I could say another word, he turned, stumbling back down the hallway toward my mother, who was still seated at the dining room table, sobbing.

I stared after him, my mouth gone dry, my healthy heart beating out its last hours.

One day. I pulled my covers down and crawled under them, feeling the soft fabric against my unmarred skin. One godforsaken day. I closed my eyes, listening to my breath. I allowed myself to be soothed by the steady pace. It was just a dream, right? Not one day, just a dream. In. out. in. out. One day. In. out.

“You've still got a day, please wake up, please, don't go!” the frantic voice startled me from my slumber and I rolled over, staring up into the panicked eyes of my best friend, Leah.

Her features smoothed out a bit at seeing my open eyes.

“Thank God you're alive. I thought-” her voice broke and she leaned down over my bed, wrapping me in her arms.

“It's ok Leah, really.”

“Like hell it is! You're going to be gone in just one day! What am I going to do? How can I-” she stopped, wiping her eyes, to no avail.

“Leah, what time is it?”

“6:30” I bolted upright. I'd slept for two hours. Two hours of my life were gone. And when you've only got 24 hours, 2 is a lot. Wasted.

“Leah?”

“Yeah?”

“You know I love you, right?”

“I do. I love you too.”

“Good.” we sat together for a long time, her weeping, me holding her. My eyes remained dry. I cried enough for one day. I cried enough for the rest of my life.

“It's time for dinner.” my dad was in the doorway again, his eyes rimmed red, his clothing disheveled.

“Dinner?”

“Yeah.” Leah and I rose as one, following my dad out the door.

The house was eerily silent as we trudged down the hallway towards the dining room. My brother's door was hanging open, his room empty.

My mother was bustling about the table, setting places, working with a fierce sense of purpose. She didn't look up as we entered, but her eyes matched those of my father, red-rimmed.

“Sit.” my father's word was short and abrupt, and Leah and I sat, looking from one parent to another. It wasn't long before my mother brought us both dishes of food, a strained smile on her face.

“There you go, Leah,” she said, handing her her food.

“Thank you.” Leah replied, taking the hot plate gingerly. My own food was next, and as it was sat before me, I stared at it, thinking. Last dinner. Last plate of- mom's special surprise? My last. One day. No- less than one day.

There was silence at the table as we ate, my father at the head, my mother at his right. Leah and I across from her. It was, as the cliché says, thick enough to cut with a knife.

The food was good, whatever it was, and I savored it as a dying man did his last meal- not quite my last meal, but close.

We were almost done before my father cleared his throat. All eyes turned to him, and I put down my fork, hearing it clink against my plate before looking back to him.

He was staring at me, his eyes focused with a dreadful intensity. Beside him, my mother started to cry again.

“Your mother and I were talking-” he began, before another one of my mother's wails pierced to air. I flinched, closing my eyes and trying to ignore it.

“We were talking, and we decided that it would be best if- well- if- you said there would be pain?”

“Yep.”

“How much?”

“The doctor said it'd be the worst I’ve ever felt.”

“That bad?”

“Yep.” my father's features firmed, growing resolute.

“We decided- your mother and I- that we are going to spare you that pain.”

My eyes widened, “How?” did they know of some hope? Was I to be saved? My heart leaped with the thought. Hope?

“We've made an appointment at the doctor's-” again, my mother's wailing cut him off. This time, he didn't wait for it to subside. “We've made an appointment at the doctor's” he raised his voice, straining to be heard over my mother, “for tomorrow. At 3:30.”

“You spoke with him? He can fix me? He can take away the pain?” the words jumbled out of my mouth in their eagerness. Hope. Screw one day. Try 70 years. Hallelujah. Praise to the Lord, the keeper of souls, though he wouldn't be keeping mine for-

“No.”

“What?”

“He can't fix it.”

“Oh.” Screw you, Lord.

“We made an appointment for you to- well- to spare you the pain. It's...it's hard.”

“Just say it, dad” Screw hope.

“He's going to, you know.”

“I don't.” Please God, tell me I don't.

“At 3:30, he will inject you with morphine.”

“Morphine?” Tell me this isn't happening.

“Yes.”

“To take away the pain?”

“No.”

“Why, then?” Lord forgive me, please-

“So you can- pass.”

The realization slammed into me with the force of a train. Pass. Die. My parents were going to kill me. They even scheduled a fucking doctor's appointment. 3:30. What time was it? 7:00. That meant I had...21 hours to live. 21 hours before my parents murdered me.

I didn't notice the silence in the room anymore. I didn't notice my parents staring at me, Leah grabbing my hand, the food going cold on my plate. 21 hours.

“Is that, is that ok?” my dad spoke once more.

I swallowed the hatred. “Yeah, it's ok.”

“We don't want you to suffer...”

“I know, dad.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

I don't remember the rest of the night. Sure, there are bits and flashes, my parents hugging me, my mother crying, my brother coming home. But for the most part, it's all a blur- no, scratch that- it's like a big, black hole. Like some monster have risen from the deep and stolen my last memories. There is only blackness, and a blank feeling of regret.

My next memory is of me checking the clock. 11pm. 17 hours. Most people count their lives in years. Mine remained in hours. I suppose if I counted in minutes, it would seem longer. Let's see...that meant I had 1020 minutes left in my life. I guess it didn't seem so bad, when I put it that way. I bet I could even put it into seconds...612000 seconds left. Except, I realized, as I counted the numbers in my head, I only had 61199 seconds left. And then 61198. perhaps seconds weren't such a great idea. Minutes, then. Minutes. 1020.

“Leah?” she was sitting next to me on my bed.

“Yes?”

“I’m tired. I think I want to go to bed.”

“But- you- are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“You don't want to stay up for a little longer?”

“No.”

“Well- I- ok. Do you want me to leave?”

“That would probably be best.”

“Ok. Right now?”

“Yes.”

“Ok.” I could hear the reluctance in her voice, sense it floating in the air. She didn't want to leave me.

“Goodbye Leah.”

“Goodbye.”

“Hey, Leah?”

“Yeah?”

“You know I love you.”

“I love you too.” her voice broke. “I love you very much. You're my best friend.”

“I know. You're my best friend too.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Leah. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

I never saw Leah again. The darkness was complete as I lay in my bed, thinking. This was my last night. My last hours of sleep- well, the regular kind, not the eternal, everlasting, never-wake-up-from kind of sleep.

I closed my eyes, wondering what the morphine would feel like. It probably wouldn't hurt. I mean, morphine is supposed to numb you, isn't it? My parents didn't want me to have pain, they wouldn't do something if it would hurt me, would they? No. No. They wouldn't.

I fell asleep at 12am. 16 hours. 960 minutes.

The light of the sun coming through my window failed to wake me, and it wasn't until I heard knocking on my door that I opened my bleary eyes.

Those same eyes flew immediately to my clock. 9am. 6 ½ hours. That didn't seem very long. 6 ½ hours to live the rest of my life.

The knocking on my door was persistent. I turned my eyes to it, calling out.

“Come in.” the door opened slowly, revealing my mother. She peered in, looking almost afraid, wary of my presence.

“Are you awake?”

“I am.”

“Would you like some breakfast, sweetie?”

“I’m not really hungry.”

“I made it special.”

“Ok I guess. I'll be out in a minute.”

“Ok dear.” she closed the door.

6 ½ hours. I slowly swung out of bed, my feet thudding to the floor. My mind wandered forward a few hours. Would the injection hurt? Who was going to do it? Would the doctor even bother to come in, or would his nurse wield the needle? How much morphine did it take to be lethal?

I dressed slowly. Should I bother to shower? Did it matter? I guess I didn't want to be greasy for my funeral. Shower, then. After breakfast.

I opened the door, smelling fresh pancakes. One of my favorites. Of course my mom would make them for my last breakfast.

I sat down at the table, where last night, my father had announced his plans to kill me. Odd that it didn't hurt as much as I thought. no. It hurt. A lot. The fact that my parents could even conceive of such an idea nearly ripped me into pieces. But I blocked it out. I didn't want to spend my last day upset at my parents. At least I wouldn't have to feel the pain.

I sat at the table eating for approximately 1 hour and 7 minutes. I ate until I was full, and then some. I kept eating through the pain, until I felt as if I would throw up. And then I ate some more. It was delicious. For my last breakfast.

I could tell my mother was worrying over me. She hovered about the table, constantly adding more pancakes, asking me if I wanted more milk, juice, anything. I suppose it was her way of taking away the guilt she felt. The guilt she felt for murdering me.

After I finished eating, I walked to the bathroom, feeling disgustingly full. I suppose waddling would be a more accurate term for my movement. Whatever it was, it was slow, and smacked of gluttony. I didn't care. I needed to eat enough for the rest of my life.

The shower water was hot and soothing, and inside the walls of my bathroom, I almost felt as if I could let go. I closed my eyes and let the water run over me, opening my pores, cleansing my body. I knew now my body would stay unmarked. Courtesy of my parents. And my doctor.

I stayed in there for a long time, just relaxing. It was nice. Hot. Clean. My eyes shot open. I moved the shower curtain and checked the time. Another forty five minutes had passed. That meant I had about 4 ½ hours left. What a waste. I jumped out of the shower, slipping and nearly falling in my haste. I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around myself, making sure I was covered before stepping out into the hallway and heading towards my bedroom.

I wondered what I should wear. Were there proper death clothes? Should I be dressy or casual? Did it even matter? I settled on jeans and a shirt. Short-sleeved, so they wouldn't have a hard time with the needle. Easy, like.

Why did this happen?

Why was it me?

Was it karma?

Was it God's way of punishing me?

I apologize Lord, for all I have done. Hear my prayer, bring me back to safety, for you are my strength and Jesus is my savior. Oh God, please save me, for I have sinned and-

The knocking on my door interrupted my desperate prayer. I tried in vain to wipe the tears that were coursing down my cheeks.

“Yes?” my voice was shaky, cracking.

“Are you ok?” it was my mother. Again. Guilt.

“I’m fine mom.”

“Just making sure, sweetie.”

“Really, I am.” fine as anyone can be, knowing they're about to die in a few hours.

I could hear her footsteps receding down the hall. What was I supposed to do now? There were only a couple hours left in my life, and for once, I could think of nothing to do. I suppose I could watch TV, though only mid afternoon trash was on. For some reason, Jerry Springer didn't spark a high note in my list of things to do.

Leah was at school. My brother was God knows where. Come to think of it, I hadn't seen my dad yet today. I wondered where he was. Probably ordering the casket or something. How depressing.

“Mom?” I wandered out into the hallway, “Mom?”

“Yes dear?” she was at the sink, washing dishes from breakfast.

“At my funeral, could I have daisies?”

“Wha- of course sweetie.”

“And, well, can you make sure to invite Leah?”

“Of course.”

“And the whole family?”

“We will.”

I don't know what prompted me to ask these morbid questions. A sick sense of humor, I suppose. And the fact that I loved daisies. Of course, my mom already knew that.

I checked the clock. It was 12. Christ. 3 ½ hours. The doctor's office was a half-hour away. That meant we needed to leave at about 2:30 in order to get there in time to do paperwork. I wondered about the legality of this. Was it legal? Could they do that? What kind of paperwork was there to be had?

Of course, if we left at 2:30, that meant I only had two more hours at home. Two more. I walked back to my bedroom. Sat on my bed. Stared at the wall.

In idle thought, I grabbed a piece of paper and a pen. I began scribbling on it, drawing out my will. Of course, I had done this before, depicted which of my items would go where when I move- died. I'd never been serious before, though, and this time I actually considered where I wanted my things to go. The list was simple enough. My room: my parents. My stuff: Leah. It wasn't too hard. As I stared at it, I again felt my eyes well up.

I hate crying. I hate it as much as I hate death. And believe me, I loathe the thought of dying. Crying is sign of weakness, a fatal flaw in humankind. And so far, since yesterday, I cried at least ten times. Some would say I had an excuse, I mean, who wouldn't cry when they know they only have 3 hours to live? But still, I say it is a weakness, one I do not frequently indulge in.

I ripped the will off the pad of paper and threw it across the room. Again there was a knock on the door.

“Yes?”

“Do you want anything?” my mother.

Of course I want something. I want life. I want more hours, more days, more years. I want to have children and see them grow up and be able to love and live. I want to be successful, graduate school, have a career. But, more than anything, I want to live.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, mom.”

“Ok, sweetie.”

It was in that moment that I realized I didn't want to die- not just die- but die in a hospital, injected with drugs, staring at the faces of my murderers. I began to write a letter, like a suicide note, to my parents, explaining my desire to be alone, to die alone, as naturally as I could. I got all the way to my signature before I stopped, rereading the words. I tore the paper off and threw it with the will. My parents didn't need any more hassle. They didn't need any more worry than they had. For them, I would die. For them, I would succumb to the helplessness of their plans. For them.

2 hours. My heart was racing, my mouth was dry. I trembled in fear. In two hours, my life would be over, and what had I to show for it? Nothing. I had nothing.

1 hour. The knock at the door was my father, calling for me to get into the car.

My brother was with us, looking surly. I wondered if my parents had told him where we were going.

45 minutes. The silence in the car is killing me.

30 minutes. We arrive at the doctor's office. There are a few people in the waiting room.

25 minutes. My mother has finished talking to the nurse, and has come to sit beside me.

20 minutes. I don't think I can breathe any more.

15 minutes. The door has opened, a woman in scrubs is calling my name.

10 minutes. The table I am sitting on is cold, so cold.

5 minutes. The doctor has come in, bearing a platter. It is filled with needles and cotton swabs.

2 minutes. He turns to me, compliments me on my clothes, tells me he is sorry.

1 minute. “Sweetie?”

“Yes, mom?”

“You know I love you, don't you?”

“Of course mom. I love you too.”