*Wilted

Intro: I wrote this story as an exercise in writing second person. I have heard second person done very well and other times they are just choose your own adventure novels. So hopefully you don’t feel as if you should be turning to page twelve at the end of this story.

Flowers, when cut, slowly wilt over time, from about the second day you receive them. When the balloon bouquet wilts, you’ve stayed in the hospital too long. Balloons shrink for days, sometimes weeks, before showing age lines. When you have a bouquet of crusty diseased plastic spheres hope is sucked out of you when you look at them. You’ve never understood why people give flowers or balloons to sick people. Is something dying a slow painful death despite all you do suppose to bring you joy? Flowers, balloons, and hospitals just don’t mix.

So there you are, for some reason—known yet still shrouded in mystery—sitting in a hospital bed with a gown that doesn’t even pretend to offer modesty, tubes in and out your arms, numerous doctors and nurses explaining why or why not something doesn’t work, and the flowers sitting in the corner, the petals perky in the artificial light. The next day, you feel as wilted as the flowers. Day one of no one knows how many, but they’ll pretend to know. This is suppose to make you feel better about your situation. Do you?

More tests, more pokes, more prods. The flowers are dead, the balloons are headed there, and you just sit in your room and cry. You stop when you hear someone at your door and put on a brave face. They smile, wave, and set on the table, a new vase of flowers and tie a balloon to the end of your bed. You thank them, admire the gifts and, for the day, feel better about your situation.

The next day, the balloon sinks a little lower, the flowers aren’t quite so perky, and you learn the tumor has grown even more.