But he wasn't
But he wasn't sad stories
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_caprialex Writing for fun and to vent sometimes
Autoplay OFF   •   2 years ago
“Death has always been so ironically pretty.”, my husky voice whispered, nothing more than a whisk anymore.

But he wasn't

“Death has always been so ironically pretty.”, my husky voice whispered, nothing more than a whisk anymore.

Everything started out in April when I fell for him.

At that Point of time I didn’t even know that I loved him but I could feel it in my chest, the warm Feeling coming up when I saw him, me being nervous when I was Talking to him,

there were so many clear signs. For some time this love felt like heaven on earth, it felt like I was able to achieve anything I wanted. Until I asked him out for Homecoming.

The only Thing I felt was a sharp pain in my chest, as if someone was stabbing me with a sharp knife, except that his words were said knife.

“Oh, nevermind it was a joke.”, I said with a smile on my face that looked like it would break at any given moment. My voice almost breaking mid sentence.

So I just turned around and decided to go home, sleep over it. I thought I would be fine the next morning, afterall it was just a small crush. Little did I know, my mind was playing tricks on me.

What I didn’t know either was, that I wasn’t just able to go to sleep because as soon as I laid down I felt a warm fluid rolling down my cheeks.

The fluid tasted a tad bit salty, which made me realise that I was crying.

“It’s okay, it’ll be over soon..”, I tried to calm myself down, my voice breaking ever so slightly with every word I was mumbling to myself.

So I cried myself to sleep that night, nightmares haunting me, trying to drive me insane.

Every single second that’s passed was driving me more insane, making me want to break out of this prison called sleep even more.

It was 4am when I decided to just stay awake for the rest of the night after waking up for the 3rd time. Even if I’d been trying to fall back asleep it wouldn’t have worked.

My pillow felt like a wild beast squirming under my head, even though it was looking so soft, so inviting when I first got it.

My blanket being scratchy and uncomfortable while it was trying to keep me trapped in this bed.

It was the next morning when I initially realised the first symptoms. I was coughing a little and had a stuffy nose.

Looking in the mirror, I looked like a corpse, eyes puffy from all the crying eyebags that looked like they were covering my whole face. I just brushed it off and thought of it as a cold.

Everybody catches a cold eventually my naïve mind thought to itself.

I still saw him at school everyday. And everytime I saw him it felt like another stab in the chest. On the contrary, with every time I saw him it got worse.

At some point it started as if the knife was heated up just so it’ll hurt more. The pain was agonising.

Why didn’t it get better? I knew that he was never going to reciprocate these feelings I had for him, so why did I even mind?

The coughing got worse over the course of the next few days. It felt like something was blocking my airways by now and I couldn’t do anything against it.

Medicine didn’t help at all it felt as if it was making it even worse.

One month later, when I had a coughing fit, to which I was used at this point, I coughed up the first petals. Purple Hyacinth petals. They were bloody, yet so pretty to look at.

Nevertheless I was confused. Why did I cough up petals now? What was going on? My poor naïve brain didn’t understand anything at all.

After days of coughing up petals, which gradually got bigger, looking more and more intimidating by the second I decided to go to the doctor.

I was desperate, didn’t know what to do anymore, I felt like a lost puppy, desperately waiting and hoping for help.

In the waiting room, when I was throwing another coughing fit, everybody was looking at me like I was some kind of alien.

Pain and embarrassment were the only two things I was able to feel at that exact moment.

“A surgery can be done to remove the flowers. But it will remove your feelings as well. I’m sorry.” Were the only words I was able to hear the doctor saying.

Hanahaki Disease? I heard of it before but I was told it’s fictional and that something like that wouldn’t even be able to exist. But I guess I was wrong.

All I knew was that I absolutely hated it.

The doctor left me some time to think about the surgery and if I really wanted to do it. He told me to sleep over it for some nights.

Mind you, I still can’t sleep because my bed still feels like a prison which it is quite literally by now. A prison from which I won’t ever be able to escape anymore.

It was June when I came to terms with the fact that I was going to die.

I refused the surgery, after all I didn’t want to end up like an empty machine, not being able to feel anything ever again.

So I laid in my prison, the sheets covered in dark red blood with the purple hyacinth petals adorning the matress, surrounding my dying body.

“It’s ironic how pretty it is to die.” I whispered, my voice being so quiet that not even I myself was able to hear it.

Oh I wished that he was there, telling me that he loves me even though I would have known that he was lying.

But he wasn’t.

After these exact words I took my very last breath, the last piece of my soul leaving my body as I exhaled one last time.

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