The doctor sighed deeply. He collected his papers and pushed up his glasses. He straightened himself, then paused for a second. He cleared his throat and looked me in the eyes.
"Mr Roelang. I regret to inform you that your condition... is fatal... and also... uncureable..."
That was the second that I truly died.
My name is Alexander Roelang. I work for a car insurance company, and I live in a normal suburb with my wife and my daughter. We own a small two story home with just enough backyard space for a garden, a decent plot of grass, and a cement slab patio. We live a completely normal, unassuming life, by all standards. My wife works a 9 to 5 similar to my own, with adverage pay. My daughter goes to your adverage run of the mill middle school, and gets adverage grades. The only thing in our family that isn't adverage is me, and when I say me, I mean my disease.
It all started a few months ago. At first it was drowsiness and sluggishness. Then I started to have diarrhea, then I started vomiting. After I started to throw up blood my wife took me to the hospital, and there I found out the bad news. After about a week of waiting for test results, the doctors finally told me that I had an incredibly rare and uncureable disease. So rare infact, that I got to name it. I chose not too. I, instead, chose to wallow in my dispare. I became less and less responsive to my family and friends. I became more and more dependent on the nutrients that the doctors pumped into my body to keep me alive. Looking back, I'm not really sure if I wanted to live, or if I wanted to die.
"Son... You look like you need some help."
I remember that day vividly. That day when an old man, dressed in a dirty brown hoodie and ragged blue jeans entered my hospital room. I dont think I had ever meet him before. No, I'm pretty sure I had never even seen him before. Infact, when I first saw him enter, I thought that he had accidentally entered the wrong room. That was until he looked me in the eyes, and told me that I "Looked like I needed some help". I was slightly intrigued with him then, but still not enough to warrant opening my mouth to speak with him. I hadn't spoken with anyone in months anyways. However, this awkward silence didn't seem to stop the old man. Instead of leaving, he sat down on one of the couches in my hospital room and began to rustle through his ratty old backpack.
"You know son," he said, "I have seen a lot of things. A lot of people mostly. But out of all the people I've met, you, by far, are the most depressing."
I looked away from the old man, trying to ignore him.
"And I'm not talking about your situation being depressing, I'm talking about you."
At that moment, there was no person on the planet I hated more than that stinky, smelly, ugly old homeless coot.
"Son, What you need is some hope, because you obviously don't have none. You may think that it's no use to go on, and that you have no reason to live, but you're wrong."
He was right. I didn't have any hope. Why? Because my situation was hopeless. Nobody and nothing could save me. It was no use to go on. I had no reason to live. In that regard, I was correct.
"Son, don't be discouraged. You are not the only one who's gone through things like this. I have experienced this exact same thing..."
Don't make me laugh. Don't make me even consider the POSSIBILITY of YOU going through MY PAIN.
"And because I have experienced your pain, I have come to help you. Infact, I have come to cure you."
That was the first time I had made a sound in months. I couldn't help myself. I simply had to laugh. It wasn't a strong laugh. More of a weak, hoarse chuckle, followed by a viscous bout of coughing. After I finished coughing and hacking up blood I turned the the old man.
"You can't, cure me. Nobody can..." I croaked weakly.
The old man frowned.
"One person fails to cure you and you then think that no-one can? Not only are you depressing, you're an idiot."
I wanted too punch him, but I was far too weak.
"Look son. I won't try to convince you to trust me or not. I'll simply give you this choice. If you want to die, keep on being depressed, but if you want to live, eat this."
The old man reached into his backpack and pulled out a plastic baggie. Inside the bag was a disgusting slimy mass, that looked like a microwaved turd.
"If you eat this slug, you will be cured. I'll leave it with you here, and come back tomorrow. If you decide to not eat it, then you can die. If you choose to eat it, I will explain to you your next steps. You have until tomorrow to decide."
After the old man said that, he left abruptly, leaving only me, the bag, and my thoughts.
I dont know how long I stared at that bag. Hours atleast. I dont remember what I was thinking either. I only remember that it took me a long time to think about what ever I was thinking about. All I know is that it ended up leading to me trying to cry, but I couldn't cry. I didn't even have the strength. That was the final straw. I slowly reached my skeletal hand into the plastic bag, and grabbed the slug. It took all my strength to raise it too my mouth. As I held it above my throat, I think I was half hoping it would kill me. No. I think I just wanted it too kill me. And with thoughts of death racing through my head, I dropped the slug into my mouth. I didn't chew it. I didn't have the strength. Instead I let the slimy mass slid down my dry gullet, down my espogaus, and into my stomach. A few seconds after the sensation of the slug creeping down my throat was over, I blacked out.