My name is Cancer. If you are hearing this message, then it means that I'm dead.
My attorney has been in contact and has hired each of you for a specific yet vague job. You'll need to get to know and trust each other quickly, so I'll be brief.
Your real job is to make sure I stay dead.
First of all, I'm sorry. I didn't want to make you fight me, but I couldn't help it. I was born this way. It is just how I am. I'm just a cell -- I can't change the way I behave, not any more than I can change the color of the sky.
But apologizing doesn't help. Besides, you won. You've done it. Years of chemo and radiotherapy, and neither of us wants to ever go through this again. So here's what I want you to do.
To Mouth:
You have to stop eating so much. When we sparred, you were so unhealthy. That's why you lost the first few rounds. If you change that, maybe you'll win quicker next time.
To Hands:
Stop holding those cigarettes. Maybe it feels good to breathe that smoke in, but really, you were suffocating. You'll find it easier to fight me when your lungs can actually breathe.
To Legs:
Please, go for a run once in a while. Get yourself in shape. You were so unprepared before. Don't make that same mistake again.
If you follow all my instructions, you'll have a much better chance of beating me the next time. Assuming there's a next time. No promises, though. If I return, I don't think I can hold myself back. Make sure you're ready for it.
It's beginning to get warm. The radiotherapy has started. I feel it. It's burning into me, eating into me, destroying me.
Am I afraid to die? I think so. What happens when I die? Will I go to cancer heaven, or cancer hell? Or do I just... stop? I guess I'll find out, soon enough.
It burns. It hurts. But it's funny. Do you have any idea what it's like to be me? To be born in the wrong way, in the wrong place, at the wrong time. None of it was my fault. I never wanted this. It's not like I could have ever won, anyway. If you die, I die. In a sense, I was born to perish. What a meaningless existence I've had. How sad.
At least this way, you get to live another day.
The radiotherapy isn't stopping. The agony is unimaginable. I feel the energy blasting into me, tearing apart my cells, ripping my DNA to shreds. All I feel now is pain. Pain, and jealousy.
I guess this is it. Goodbye. Remember me. Live on for me.
qt-py t1_isgiu92 wrote
Reply to [WP] "If you are hearing this message, then it means I'm dead. My attorney has been in contact with, and hired, each of you for a specific yet vague job. You'll need to get to know and trust each other quickly, so I'll be brief. You've real job is to make sure I stay dead." by Paper_Shotgun
My name is Cancer. If you are hearing this message, then it means that I'm dead.
My attorney has been in contact and has hired each of you for a specific yet vague job. You'll need to get to know and trust each other quickly, so I'll be brief.
Your real job is to make sure I stay dead.
First of all, I'm sorry. I didn't want to make you fight me, but I couldn't help it. I was born this way. It is just how I am. I'm just a cell -- I can't change the way I behave, not any more than I can change the color of the sky.
But apologizing doesn't help. Besides, you won. You've done it. Years of chemo and radiotherapy, and neither of us wants to ever go through this again. So here's what I want you to do.
To Mouth:
To Hands:
To Legs:
If you follow all my instructions, you'll have a much better chance of beating me the next time. Assuming there's a next time. No promises, though. If I return, I don't think I can hold myself back. Make sure you're ready for it.
It's beginning to get warm. The radiotherapy has started. I feel it. It's burning into me, eating into me, destroying me.
Am I afraid to die? I think so. What happens when I die? Will I go to cancer heaven, or cancer hell? Or do I just... stop? I guess I'll find out, soon enough.
It burns. It hurts. But it's funny. Do you have any idea what it's like to be me? To be born in the wrong way, in the wrong place, at the wrong time. None of it was my fault. I never wanted this. It's not like I could have ever won, anyway. If you die, I die. In a sense, I was born to perish. What a meaningless existence I've had. How sad.
At least this way, you get to live another day.
The radiotherapy isn't stopping. The agony is unimaginable. I feel the energy blasting into me, tearing apart my cells, ripping my DNA to shreds. All I feel now is pain. Pain, and jealousy.
I guess this is it. Goodbye. Remember me. Live on for me.
I hope I never see you again.