Tenacity (126 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryRating: 2 on 1 review (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by FunnyAsCancer (View user info) at 2006-10-23 23:24:49 EDT
This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.
There is no cure for cancer.
Tom didn't believe that. He couldn't.
When his wife Sarah was first diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia, he thought if only she did the chemo, if only she was willing to fight it, if only he loved her enough...she'd pull through. She had to.
She had to.
And so it went. He would drive her to the radiation lab every few months, hold her hand as she lay there in a toothpaste-themed room, and pray to God with every breath that she would get better.
When she emerged from her treatment looking even worse than when she went in, he'd just hold her, her head pressed against his chest, as he whispered "I love you" over and over.
It wasn't enough.
He could see that, though he didn't want to. She was slipping, and it killed him almost as much as it did her.
But Tom wouldn't give up, wouldn't let this thing beat them. So he gave more. He took an indefinite leave from his job, in order to spend a few more hours a day with her. It would be hard on their savings, but as long as he could pay for her treatments, they'd survive, at least for now.
And then one day Sarah died.
She just died. It didn't matter how much he gave, how much of himself he put into her. It didn't matter how tightly he squeezed her, how many times he cried "no" in a hysterical disparity, how many tears escaped his eyes before coming to rest on her still form.
She was gone.
~~~
From there it was the cliché period of wallowing in self-pity, the mourning of a man who has lost more than a lover, but a part of himself as well.
The day would begin at six in the morning, a memoir of a time when Tom still had a job to go to. He would awaken, his only movement the subtle raising of his eyelids, as he stared at the desert-like void that was now the other side of the bed.
He would remain in that position for at least an hour, his mind as empty as the space he now gazed at.
When he finally shook himself from his stupor, he would go downstairs and brew a pot, always forgetting he only had to make half as much nowadays. It was usually about then that he would cry for the first time that day, those two percolating cups saying far more than he could have ever imagined.
After forcing down as much as his churning stomach would take, he would take a shower, letting the water wash over him until the steam disappeared and turned to ice instead.
It didn't matter, Tom didn't feel much anymore.
From there he would brush his teeth, more a routine at this point than concern for his appearance. It was the only time of day you'd ever catch him smile, his lips stretched wide as the thick bristles swished-swashed across the ivory horizon.
Getting dressed could take well into the afternoon, as rummaging through the closet always brought back a myriad of memories, a Russian roulette of remembrances that would either make him sigh or break into hysterical sobbing.
On one given day it was the latter, as Tom found the blouse Sarah wore the first day they met.
She had been sitting on a bench in the park, sipping on a bottle of water. He came over and sat down, bending over to tie his shoe.
And for whatever reason, the bottle slipped from her grasp, splashing its contents down upon him as he froze in hydrated shock. He looked up, and found her trying not to laugh, as she covered her mouth in surprised embarrassment.
He smiled back at her, righting himself as he picked up the fallen bottle. Then his grin turned mischievous, as he lunged toward her, dousing her with the rest of the water amongst laughing squeals of protest.
From there all that was left to do was let Fate takes its course, as the two exchanged names and began the inane small talk that always leads to something more in these situations.
Tom remembered moments like these with almost flawless quality, every second a snapshot in his mind. That's what made thinking of her so painful, as he brought her back to life each day, only to watch her slip away yet again.
That was where the final ritual of the day came into play. After he wore himself down, his body drained from reminiscent stress, he would go over to the bedside table, where he'd pull out the handgun he'd held every day since the day she was taken from him.
He would lift the heavy executioner from its wooden prison, keep it grasped tightly in his hand as he stared at it resting there silently in his lap. He would simply observe it, smell the chemical aroma of oil and gunpowder, as he contemplated that which he could never do.
Tom knew he would never pull that trigger, simply because he knew she wouldn't want him to. If she were here, she would be appalled at his weakness, that he lacked the strength, the courage, the tenacity to press on without her.
And so he would hang his head, breathe, and put the weapon down until the next day came.
After that, the rest of the day was spent not paying attention to the TV, or faking normalcy in case of a friend's concerned visit.
Each day was spent the same as the last, an exercise in grief as the world spun on, getting just a little bit worse.
And then one day, Tom realized something.
As much as he wanted her back, as much as he kept her alive in his head, she would not return. She was dead, and there would be no changing that. He had to move on, to stop this torture once and for all.
So with one smooth motion, Tom raised the gun to his temple, released the safety, and never looked back.
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Submitted by kaos-king (user info) at 2007-06-04 23:38:41 EDT (#)
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