Terminal in Flash Friday Entries

Best part of dying from cancer is that I finally get to smoke all the fucking pot I want without anyone being able to judge me. When the doctor delivered the news, I just sat there and stared at the magazines on his desk. Do Doctors really care about the celebrity gossip? Or was it a veiled attempt to make patients feel that our mundane lives were unworthy of being printed in a glossy magazine? I looked up at the word terminal.

Terminal: You have a couple months without treatment or a year with treatment.

I wanted to punch him in the jaw. I wanted to scream at him that I was not another script for him to recite. I was a person. I had a future. But he said his part, he was waiting for my lines. I looked around trying to find a cue card. How do you respond to the fact that you are getting close to being expired? That all the things you have wanted to do with your life now have a harsh deadline.

“With treatment, you will be very sick. We will have to do surgeries. But It will prolong your time for a period of time. But if you choose not to do treatment we can make you comfortable with pain pills, medical marijuana, and you will not be in pain.”

Why was he still talking? I need to process this. I felt like he was rushing me out of his office so I could rush up my expiration date. I said I needed to think about it, asked for a prescription for some pain pills, pot, or anything and left his office.

Dying. Cancer. This was fucking bullshit. How do you break the news to a patient about this without getting them high first? I mean, this was some heavy news and I felt the need to lose control. Go get drunk, have sex with a stranger, feel something besides half empty.

I went out that night to Babylon. A shy man in my early 30s… I had never approached anyone. But a man in his 30s with nothing to lose and the need to make up a life worth of regrets… I was unstoppable. Plus I was high as shit.

The music was loud—I couldn’t think about life because the sound of the music made my head vibrate. I just wanted to dance. Make out with as many men as possible. Do the things I have always been so scared to do because I was worried about what others would think about me.

Funny how death can change your self confidence level? Who gives a damn about opinions when you get to spent the next day picking out your tombstone with your mother who can’t stop crying?

I dance for a while. Trying to push all my emotions out. I am on a time line and I don’t want to worry about anything but the way my body feels in this current minute. A young guy comes over to me and starts to dance with me. He is shirtless and covered in glitter. He presses against me and I grab his hips. This moment, with a stranger, being close without knowing his name makes me feel alive for the first time ever. He turns around and kisses me. He tastes like strawberry chapstick and cheap vodka.

As we are kissing and grinding I look up and see a guy across the room. He is the kind of guy you would ignore in a bar. Overweight, bad hair, dorky glasses. He was probably dragged here with his friends and now was ditched in the corner to only enjoy the night vicariously. Enjoying the night in the shadows.

I tell strawberry chapstick I have to go. He pouts and grabs my dick. I push him off me and I walk over to the portly man and ask him his name.

“Paul.”

I told Paul I was horny and wanted to experience what it feels like to be inside him. He looked shocked and backed away from me. Apparently Paul wasn’t used to a blunt man. A terminal man. But he came home with me that night. I want to feel a connection and I wanted him to feel special. I knew that I had all the power in this hook up. He knew it. I was attractive and he had spent his whole life being a bottom feeder. No one deserves to be ignored. Forgotten.

He held me afterwards. His sweaty hands holding mine. I lay wrapped up in him, feeling his large belly pushing against my back. He starts to snore and I wonder if he had ever been told he was beautiful before. I wasn’t going to tell him that. I have decided not to lie anymore in my end days. What’s the point?

When Paul left in the morning, I told him thank you. He asked to see me again and I told him I will likely be dead soon and not available. He look genuinely hurt and I didn’t clarify. As far as blow offs go, that would be a pretty shitty one. But when you see the end of the line… No time for explanations.

After he left, I decided that I needed to get high again. I spent my whole life trying to be perfect—now all I wanted to do is get laid, smoke a lot of weed, and not worry about tomorrow.

Prompts: Gloves, lip biting, and empty promises