fabrecation | 026 [written]

[It's so bad now that Luke feels like he can barely get out of bed except for necessary needs. It's... honestly kind of strange. Sure, he's scared, and sure, he hates having to lay here and just wait for it to happen, despite writing and drawing to pass the time. But he isn't quite as terrified as he was just a month ago.

It's like he's accepted that this is happening in a quiet, somber sort of way.

There's pain every day, he's tired every day, he's thin and pale and looks as if he's just wasting away, as if he's all that's left after tiny pieces of himself slowly just... faded away. Even his hair seemed not quite as full as it ought to be.

He hated it, yes. But it's happening. And he's close to fading away completely, he knows that. Maybe that's why he's mostly okay with this. It can finally be over.

He'd only flipped through the journal to keep track of everyone. Now, though, he can't help being morbidly curious, in a way. So, making sure that he himself is out of sight, he writes slowly to the masses.]

If someone told you that you didn't have much longer to live, what would you do about it? What would you do with the last days of your life?

[It's a question that could be asked even by a curious healthy person, something to get people to think. He can think of it that way, and get answers that he might just need because of it.]

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[The offer is pretty tempting... Even if it makes a stupid scared little lump show up in his throat.]

I

~~How~~

I haven't told a lot of people. I'm just... I'm scared to. And I feel like a coward because of it. I know everyone's going to be mad at me, but every time I try to say something to them... I just can't.

Don't have to feel that way--you're not a coward. There's plenty of reason not to tell people; sometimes it's better off that way. Letting people know what's waiting for you here or at home? It just makes things harder. I definitely get that.

Ultimately, it's your choice.

I take it that you have an illness? For a while now?

[It's... reassuring to hear that. All this time, people would call him an idiot for not saying anything, that he doesn't need to handle this alone. So to hear that he isn't a coward, that someone gets it, that it's his choice?

It makes him smile, despite the subject, even chuckle as he runs a hand through his hair. It almost feels like he doesn't have to feel so guilty for holding everything back... and so close to his time of death, it's such a welcome relief.]

... Yeah. A few months now. I thought I could just ignore it for a while, but... well, I can't really do that right now. I look and feel pretty pathetic.

It's alright to look or feel pathetic. You got every right to be, right? It's not like it's something you can control.

[a pause]

Death is scary, but it also feels alright once it finally just happens. Like drifting off somewhere peaceful. I know our circumstances are likely pretty damn different, but... at least we're here in this place. Is that comforting? Shit, I dunno. I'm not that good at these kinds of things.

No, it's... it's okay.

[There's a small pause before he writes, faster than he did before.]

You're the only one who's told me stuff like this. That it's my choice. That it's... alright. Everyone else just - They tell me I need to trust them more and that I shouldn't keep secrets. I've

I've never really felt happy because of that.

Everybody gets to keep some secrets. Dying isn't off the table for that.

They're all hurting because they think they could have done something, made you feel more comfortable, something. But sometimes, it makes things easier when people don't know. Makes life feel normal, the life you enjoyed before you got sick. Don't regret it, kid. Don't hold it against em--but never regret it. It's your last days, weeks, months to decide how you want them to go.

[He taps his pen, silent.]

I don't think they realize how much it hurts to be looked at like a ticking clock.

[... Man. It's a strange feeling, seeing exactly how he feels written by someone else, especially someone he doesn't even know. It makes him stop writing for a moment as a result, and he turns his gaze down to the sheets instead.

A ticking clock. That's exactly how it feels sometimes, especially lately. Knowing that at least a few people can see him like this. He lifts up one hand - completely covered by a glove to hide just how bony it looks, and slowly curls it into a weak fist. Even just doing that, he can feel how thin his fingers are.

He bites his lip and runs a hand through his hair... shuts his eyes and tries to ignore that light little sensation of strands of hair falling against his neck and shoulders, keeps them closed as he pulls his hand away, unwilling to see more strands against his hand. One of the things he's so proud of, too...

And people get to see that. It's not hard to see the frustration, the sadness, in their eyes.

Finally, he opens his eyes and reaches to write again.]

Who are you?

Sergeant Rick Doyle, at your service. Formerly part of Earth's American army. Whatever you want to refer to it as, anyway. Guess that's a moot point, but at least it offers some insight on why I died.

[Being a soldier is pretty dangerous, after all.]

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