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Be nice to me, I have cancer.Be nice to me, I have cancer.
I wince and glance around at everyone around me. A few curious eyes glance at my mother, trying to be surreptitious but the greedy look in their eyes lets me know they want to hear more. I sigh and duck my head a bit, moving closer to my mom and mumbling beneath my breath, Please, dont do this right here, right now; cant it wait until were in the car?
Why should it? she challenges back at me. Be nice to me. I. Have. Cancer. She says it loudly, and more heads turn to stare at me. I blush and look up at my mothers bald head. Wisps of hair try to shine through, but it doesnt do much but make her look like a sad, pitiful lion. The hair is a silky blond color. Her original hair color was black. I wonder how her hair managed to change color, and I wonder if the radiation had anything to do with it, or maybe my mom had just been dying her hair before then without l
Born.There is a world where every life is written down in one, unique book.
No two books are the same; they can be similar, but no two pages are ever perfectly alike. Each book is unique to the person that holds it.
On the day of the creature's birth, they are given this book: their name already written in blocky little letters on the cover. With infantile hands, they push the cover of the book away to expose the first page of the book. Of course the book starts out a simplistic read. Things that this young child will be able to comprehend within moments.
But, as the pages turn, and turn, and turn, the text begins to thicken. The child is growing up while their reading skill rises. Eventually this book no longer bares one simple word on an expanse of white, but begins to closely resemble that of an earth-bound novel.
The book tells an intriguing story, of course. It's probably most interesting to the creature it is given to, though seeing as the book is all about their life.
Bo.When Lindsay was born, Bo was there. Standing beside her mother, he was the first thing she ever saw. But he was not her father; her father stood on the other side.
Bo was there until the very moment she died.
The sun shone bright through the windows of her pink-laden room. She loved pink. And black.
“Because Bo is black,” she’d told her parents.
Her imaginary friend, they soon concluded.
“Bo is all black,” she described one night as her father tucked her in, “His skin and his hair and everything. He doesn’t talk a lot.”
Her father frowned.
“He sounds scary.”
“He’s not,” she insisted.
Bo sat on the bed and said nothing.
Her father kissed her good night and turned out the light.
“Why can’t Dad see you?” she asked.
“Are you real?”
“Are you real?” he replied.
“How do you know?”
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