Ordinary, chapter 36
summary: Ian is diagnosed with cancer. This is the final chapter.
warnings: gross sobbing
rating: pg-13
A/N: So this is it. I found an orchestral version of Fix You by Coldplay, if you'd like to listen to it as the story ends. Fix You was the inspiration for this ending, so I thought it proper.
Ordinary, chapter thirty six
It was Saturday, and Ian could barely move in his sheets. He got up to use the bathroom, and return to his bed, but these actions were rare and slow. He could feel death, he knew it was close now. The whole house had become like a cage, containing it, and death hid in corners and spread across rooms like a wave. He could sense the cold, the lack of movement, the total silence. Outside, the world kept going, but in his house, death was impatient, death was waiting for him.
He was up at noon, and went to the computer room, sitting uneasily in the chair in front of the desk. He moved the mouse slowly, not wanting to do it, but feeling it was for the best. He went to Facebook and stared at his newsfeed; nothing important, just the usual girls complaining or guys talking about normal things. He sighed, and went to the security settings, then clicked to deactivate his account. "Are you sure?" read a message from Facebook. The profile pictures of five of his friends lay below these words, one of them being Anthony. He shook his head, and then deactivated the account before he could change his mind, knowing he had made the decision to delete the account months ago. He took a deep breath, then moved on to the next site.
He logged into Twitter, then scrolled through his mentions. "@SmoshIan, r u ok?? :(" "@SmoshIan, you look sick..:(" The fans had been concerned for him ever since they discovered his "low blood pressure," but slowly, they had become more and more aware that something was very wrong. He looked at the tweets for one more minute, a painful sadness filling him, before going to his account settings, and deleting his Twitter. He left the Smosh blog on Tumblr, knowing Anthony used it as well.
He shut down the computer, and slowly retreated to his room, feeling the silence of his house putting an intense pressure on his ears. Sadness filled him like warm water, searing and pressing, but he did his best to accept it. He was dying, and sadness was inevitable now. On the way to his bed, he had a foolish thought, but couldn't push it away. Slowly, with a groan of pain, he kneeled next to his bed, placing his elbows on the mattress, and folding his hands.
He believed in the universe. He believed in the Big Bang. He believed in emptiness after death. Yet his ending sparked his fear, so he did what he thought he would never do- he prayed.
"God." He began, voice sounding strange in the unearthly silence of his home. "I just wanted to pray. Just in case. I don't believe you're there." he gulped. "But maybe you are. Maybe you're listening. Maybe, right now, you're waiting to send me to Heaven, or Hell. I-I don't know where I'd go." his voice shook. "I just want the pain to go away. Everything hurts. Everything."
Tears threatened him, but he took a deep breath, and continued. "I know that, if you are real, I won't get into Heaven just by asking, but I'd like to ask, anyway. Please, just let me in. Or let me not feel like this anymore. Like I'm breaking, but so damn slowly. I hung in there for my family, but I don't know if I can anymore. I'm not sure if you're aware, but I think having cancer is the closest thing we have to Hell on Earth."
A tear fell down his cheek, but he continued, still shaking. "Just make sure Mom and Ant are alright. Please. And Mel. Kris. Deacon Franklin. My sister. Charlie. I know that if you're real, you probably can't guarantee anything, but please, please, try to protect whoever you can. Mom and Ant, especially. They're- they mean so much to me. I love them so, so much. Amen."
He got into his bed, staring at the ceiling. He was trying to find peace, trying to accept that he was dying and go out gracefully, but it was hard. It was hard to make peace when there was so much pain and sadness, guilt and regret. Hard to find peace when he was leaving so much behind. When he was feeling every emotion in the world, all at once.
***
He stayed up very late that night, staring at the wall. He was tired and restless, yet could not sleep. There was something he was denying for a very long time, something nagging him. The chance that it was a very bad idea not telling Anthony he was dying.
His stomach pinched him, and Ian reminded himself that he was sparing Anthony some pain, but at the same time wondered if the shock of his death would make things even worse.
He spent hours remembering every moment he had with Anthony, the good and the bad, everything he had thought of when he decided to never tell him that one day at lunch. Meeting him, falling for him, giving him up. Realizing the feelings were still there. When he decided to never tell Anthony, he justified it as saving him. But it wasn't, not now.
Towards the beginning, yes, hiding it from them was the right thing, it was protecting all of them. But he was inches from death, and realized this wasn't about protecting them anymore. It was about protecting himself. He was a coward, he could not see Anthony's pain.
But he couldn't fully accept that, not after months in denial. So he turned in his bed and slept, avoiding the sad, harsh truth. Anthony should've known by then.
***
It was almost eight in the morning the next day, Sunday, July eighth. It was perfectly sunny outside, and insanely beautiful, birds chirping and children playing. But inside Ian's home, the air was still, and there was a chilling silence. The sun shone in from the windows, and the dust in the air was visible, suspended particles floating but barely moving.
In his room, Ian was lying in bed, staring at Charlie's cage in a sad silence, not really thinking of anything, just feeling. Feeling an odd swirl of both painful and pleasant emotions, although he was unsure if this mix made his situation better or worse.
Suddenly, he was stricken with nausea, and he quickly abandoned his bed in favor of the bathroom. Entering the room, he quickly kneeled down in front of the toilet, and felt hot vomit rise in his body. It burned his throat and pushed out of his mouth, then fell sickeningly into the toilet, splashing into the water with a cringe-worthy sound. Ian, head aching, breathed heavy, and then heaved again. Once more, the sludge oozed from him, causing him to shake and sweat, pain pricking his mouth and throat, and searing his forehead.
He stared down at the vomit, swirls of blood and bile in the water. It coiled and settled slowly and sickeningly, reminding Ian how much he hated vomiting.
But the blood, that was different to him, unseen since his last nosebleed. With a shaking hand, he grabbed at the roll of toilet paper beside him, and blew his nose. Nothing. It was not bleeding.
Panic floored him. If the blood in his vomit was not caused by a nosebleed, it meant something far more serious. It meant the end. He stood up quickly, and felt dizzy, head splitting. Scared, he ran from his bathroom, into the hallway.
His head was burning with pain, and he was dizzy, unable to keep his balance. The light faded in and out, pitching him in temporary moments of darkness as he stumbled. Weak, hurt, desperate, he fell.
As he lie on the floor, blood dripped from his mouth, and after a shocked moment, he made an attempt to stand back up. But try as he might, he could not push hard enough, not move enough, not be enough anymore. He had no strength, and couldn't save himself. He remembered Doctor Marrow's words. Call an ambulance...when you think you're at the end.
Ian breathed hard, face twisted in pain, then reached down to the pocket in his jeans, gratitude rushing through him when he realized he had his phone. He pulled it out slowly, and made the call.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"Hi, I need help, I collapsed and I can't get up. I-I have cancer."
"Okay, there's an ambulance on the way, just hang in there. Are you okay?" The woman from the other side of the line spoke to him, but it sounded faint and far away. The light was fading in and out once again, and the pain in his head grew so much, he couldn't breathe without feeling as though he had been stabbed through his skull. Eyes squeezed shut, he could not respond to the woman who tried so desperately to talk to him, to help him, because the pain fought him too hard. He moved in and out of consciousness for several minutes, shaking in pain as the blood dripped from his mouth and his stomach felt like it was tearing itself apart. The last thing he saw in that house was a man from the ambulance, kneeling over him in a useless attempt to help.
***
He woke up to a blinding white. His first feeling was shock, which subsided when he realized where he was, in a hospital room. Whatever pain he had was subdued, still there but not as bad, like a bruise after a fall. He felt tired and groggy, but opened his eyes fully anyway, and looked around.
There, in a chair just a few feet away from him, sat Doctor Marrow. His hands were twisting in his lap, head hanging, but he looked up when he heard Ian's shallow breathing become irregular as he awoke. For one second, their eyes connected, and Ian saw the man look at him in total pity, with only pain in his eyes. Then, Marrow stood, gave him a nod of respect, and left the room without saying another word, knowing what emotions were stirring inside him, knowing what was about to happen.
Ian watched him leave, then turned his head, and saw on the nightstand beside his bed, a pad of paper and a pen. He did not know why he reached for them, why he wrote what he wrote; it was simply a much needed catharsis, a lifting of a great weight from his weak chest, accepting his denial far too late. He took the pen to the paper, and wrote quickly in sloppy handwriting.
Anthony-
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I'm leaving you. You'll never know how sorry I am. I
don't want to go. I don't want it to end.
I never told you because I was scared. I didn't want things to change. I didn't
want you to pity me, I didn't want everything to be weird, I didn't want our
relationship to be ruined.
But then I waited awhile, then it was too long. And I didn't tell you because I
wanted to protect you from the pain. I didn't want you to hate me. I didn't want
to die miserable because of what I said or did to you. But I feel like shit, and
I bet I would feel like shit whether you were with me right now or not. I should
have told you. I should have warned you, I should have been a better friend.
I did the best I could, but I was blinded, because I was in love. In high
school, God, I had such a crush on you, Ant, but I wasn't sure about anything,
and then you were embarrassed, and then Frankie yelled at us- I decided to just
force myself to like girls, to let you be happy. I just want you to be happy.
But I can't protect you from everything, like I tried to with this cancer. It
hurt to tell my mom, but it doesn't matter, because she deserved to know, like
you deserved to know. You've been too good a friend not to know.
Please, don't stop going. Don't stop living. Grow up, get old. Be grateful for
everything you have, because I wasn't, and now I have nothing.
Take care of Charlie for me.
I love you. And I'm so sorry.
- Ian.
Ian placed the notepad and pen gently back onto the table, then sighed and rested his head against the pillow. He was so tired now.
Outside the door, a nurse popped her head into the room. "Mr. Hecox, your emergency contact, your mother, she just got the call, she's on her way now."
He nodded, and she left. He settled into the pillow once again, and stared at the white ceiling for a few seconds more, before closing his eyes. And then, with a dull pain, he realized his mother would not make it in time. And that was his final thought.
Hey, everyone, thank you so much for all of your support for myself and this story, it's so great to see people really love my work, and it thrills me to see all of your kind comments. This concludes the thirty six chapters I wrote for Ordinary, but it's not the end. The end, actually, is one you get to choose. In the comments section below, or on Twitter, please let me know if you would prefer a short epilogue or a story length sequel to Ordinary. The epilogue would be the same length as an average chapter and be posted in a week or two. The sequel would be roughly the length of this story, but you'd have to wait a few months for it. Let me know, and remember, every vote counts.
warnings: gross sobbing
rating: pg-13
A/N: So this is it. I found an orchestral version of Fix You by Coldplay, if you'd like to listen to it as the story ends. Fix You was the inspiration for this ending, so I thought it proper.
Ordinary, chapter thirty six
It was Saturday, and Ian could barely move in his sheets. He got up to use the bathroom, and return to his bed, but these actions were rare and slow. He could feel death, he knew it was close now. The whole house had become like a cage, containing it, and death hid in corners and spread across rooms like a wave. He could sense the cold, the lack of movement, the total silence. Outside, the world kept going, but in his house, death was impatient, death was waiting for him.
He was up at noon, and went to the computer room, sitting uneasily in the chair in front of the desk. He moved the mouse slowly, not wanting to do it, but feeling it was for the best. He went to Facebook and stared at his newsfeed; nothing important, just the usual girls complaining or guys talking about normal things. He sighed, and went to the security settings, then clicked to deactivate his account. "Are you sure?" read a message from Facebook. The profile pictures of five of his friends lay below these words, one of them being Anthony. He shook his head, and then deactivated the account before he could change his mind, knowing he had made the decision to delete the account months ago. He took a deep breath, then moved on to the next site.
He logged into Twitter, then scrolled through his mentions. "@SmoshIan, r u ok?? :(" "@SmoshIan, you look sick..:(" The fans had been concerned for him ever since they discovered his "low blood pressure," but slowly, they had become more and more aware that something was very wrong. He looked at the tweets for one more minute, a painful sadness filling him, before going to his account settings, and deleting his Twitter. He left the Smosh blog on Tumblr, knowing Anthony used it as well.
He shut down the computer, and slowly retreated to his room, feeling the silence of his house putting an intense pressure on his ears. Sadness filled him like warm water, searing and pressing, but he did his best to accept it. He was dying, and sadness was inevitable now. On the way to his bed, he had a foolish thought, but couldn't push it away. Slowly, with a groan of pain, he kneeled next to his bed, placing his elbows on the mattress, and folding his hands.
He believed in the universe. He believed in the Big Bang. He believed in emptiness after death. Yet his ending sparked his fear, so he did what he thought he would never do- he prayed.
"God." He began, voice sounding strange in the unearthly silence of his home. "I just wanted to pray. Just in case. I don't believe you're there." he gulped. "But maybe you are. Maybe you're listening. Maybe, right now, you're waiting to send me to Heaven, or Hell. I-I don't know where I'd go." his voice shook. "I just want the pain to go away. Everything hurts. Everything."
Tears threatened him, but he took a deep breath, and continued. "I know that, if you are real, I won't get into Heaven just by asking, but I'd like to ask, anyway. Please, just let me in. Or let me not feel like this anymore. Like I'm breaking, but so damn slowly. I hung in there for my family, but I don't know if I can anymore. I'm not sure if you're aware, but I think having cancer is the closest thing we have to Hell on Earth."
A tear fell down his cheek, but he continued, still shaking. "Just make sure Mom and Ant are alright. Please. And Mel. Kris. Deacon Franklin. My sister. Charlie. I know that if you're real, you probably can't guarantee anything, but please, please, try to protect whoever you can. Mom and Ant, especially. They're- they mean so much to me. I love them so, so much. Amen."
He got into his bed, staring at the ceiling. He was trying to find peace, trying to accept that he was dying and go out gracefully, but it was hard. It was hard to make peace when there was so much pain and sadness, guilt and regret. Hard to find peace when he was leaving so much behind. When he was feeling every emotion in the world, all at once.
***
He stayed up very late that night, staring at the wall. He was tired and restless, yet could not sleep. There was something he was denying for a very long time, something nagging him. The chance that it was a very bad idea not telling Anthony he was dying.
His stomach pinched him, and Ian reminded himself that he was sparing Anthony some pain, but at the same time wondered if the shock of his death would make things even worse.
He spent hours remembering every moment he had with Anthony, the good and the bad, everything he had thought of when he decided to never tell him that one day at lunch. Meeting him, falling for him, giving him up. Realizing the feelings were still there. When he decided to never tell Anthony, he justified it as saving him. But it wasn't, not now.
Towards the beginning, yes, hiding it from them was the right thing, it was protecting all of them. But he was inches from death, and realized this wasn't about protecting them anymore. It was about protecting himself. He was a coward, he could not see Anthony's pain.
But he couldn't fully accept that, not after months in denial. So he turned in his bed and slept, avoiding the sad, harsh truth. Anthony should've known by then.
***
It was almost eight in the morning the next day, Sunday, July eighth. It was perfectly sunny outside, and insanely beautiful, birds chirping and children playing. But inside Ian's home, the air was still, and there was a chilling silence. The sun shone in from the windows, and the dust in the air was visible, suspended particles floating but barely moving.
In his room, Ian was lying in bed, staring at Charlie's cage in a sad silence, not really thinking of anything, just feeling. Feeling an odd swirl of both painful and pleasant emotions, although he was unsure if this mix made his situation better or worse.
Suddenly, he was stricken with nausea, and he quickly abandoned his bed in favor of the bathroom. Entering the room, he quickly kneeled down in front of the toilet, and felt hot vomit rise in his body. It burned his throat and pushed out of his mouth, then fell sickeningly into the toilet, splashing into the water with a cringe-worthy sound. Ian, head aching, breathed heavy, and then heaved again. Once more, the sludge oozed from him, causing him to shake and sweat, pain pricking his mouth and throat, and searing his forehead.
He stared down at the vomit, swirls of blood and bile in the water. It coiled and settled slowly and sickeningly, reminding Ian how much he hated vomiting.
But the blood, that was different to him, unseen since his last nosebleed. With a shaking hand, he grabbed at the roll of toilet paper beside him, and blew his nose. Nothing. It was not bleeding.
Panic floored him. If the blood in his vomit was not caused by a nosebleed, it meant something far more serious. It meant the end. He stood up quickly, and felt dizzy, head splitting. Scared, he ran from his bathroom, into the hallway.
His head was burning with pain, and he was dizzy, unable to keep his balance. The light faded in and out, pitching him in temporary moments of darkness as he stumbled. Weak, hurt, desperate, he fell.
As he lie on the floor, blood dripped from his mouth, and after a shocked moment, he made an attempt to stand back up. But try as he might, he could not push hard enough, not move enough, not be enough anymore. He had no strength, and couldn't save himself. He remembered Doctor Marrow's words. Call an ambulance...when you think you're at the end.
Ian breathed hard, face twisted in pain, then reached down to the pocket in his jeans, gratitude rushing through him when he realized he had his phone. He pulled it out slowly, and made the call.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"Hi, I need help, I collapsed and I can't get up. I-I have cancer."
"Okay, there's an ambulance on the way, just hang in there. Are you okay?" The woman from the other side of the line spoke to him, but it sounded faint and far away. The light was fading in and out once again, and the pain in his head grew so much, he couldn't breathe without feeling as though he had been stabbed through his skull. Eyes squeezed shut, he could not respond to the woman who tried so desperately to talk to him, to help him, because the pain fought him too hard. He moved in and out of consciousness for several minutes, shaking in pain as the blood dripped from his mouth and his stomach felt like it was tearing itself apart. The last thing he saw in that house was a man from the ambulance, kneeling over him in a useless attempt to help.
***
He woke up to a blinding white. His first feeling was shock, which subsided when he realized where he was, in a hospital room. Whatever pain he had was subdued, still there but not as bad, like a bruise after a fall. He felt tired and groggy, but opened his eyes fully anyway, and looked around.
There, in a chair just a few feet away from him, sat Doctor Marrow. His hands were twisting in his lap, head hanging, but he looked up when he heard Ian's shallow breathing become irregular as he awoke. For one second, their eyes connected, and Ian saw the man look at him in total pity, with only pain in his eyes. Then, Marrow stood, gave him a nod of respect, and left the room without saying another word, knowing what emotions were stirring inside him, knowing what was about to happen.
Ian watched him leave, then turned his head, and saw on the nightstand beside his bed, a pad of paper and a pen. He did not know why he reached for them, why he wrote what he wrote; it was simply a much needed catharsis, a lifting of a great weight from his weak chest, accepting his denial far too late. He took the pen to the paper, and wrote quickly in sloppy handwriting.
Anthony-
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I'm leaving you. You'll never know how sorry I am. I
don't want to go. I don't want it to end.
I never told you because I was scared. I didn't want things to change. I didn't
want you to pity me, I didn't want everything to be weird, I didn't want our
relationship to be ruined.
But then I waited awhile, then it was too long. And I didn't tell you because I
wanted to protect you from the pain. I didn't want you to hate me. I didn't want
to die miserable because of what I said or did to you. But I feel like shit, and
I bet I would feel like shit whether you were with me right now or not. I should
have told you. I should have warned you, I should have been a better friend.
I did the best I could, but I was blinded, because I was in love. In high
school, God, I had such a crush on you, Ant, but I wasn't sure about anything,
and then you were embarrassed, and then Frankie yelled at us- I decided to just
force myself to like girls, to let you be happy. I just want you to be happy.
But I can't protect you from everything, like I tried to with this cancer. It
hurt to tell my mom, but it doesn't matter, because she deserved to know, like
you deserved to know. You've been too good a friend not to know.
Please, don't stop going. Don't stop living. Grow up, get old. Be grateful for
everything you have, because I wasn't, and now I have nothing.
Take care of Charlie for me.
I love you. And I'm so sorry.
- Ian.
Ian placed the notepad and pen gently back onto the table, then sighed and rested his head against the pillow. He was so tired now.
Outside the door, a nurse popped her head into the room. "Mr. Hecox, your emergency contact, your mother, she just got the call, she's on her way now."
He nodded, and she left. He settled into the pillow once again, and stared at the white ceiling for a few seconds more, before closing his eyes. And then, with a dull pain, he realized his mother would not make it in time. And that was his final thought.
Hey, everyone, thank you so much for all of your support for myself and this story, it's so great to see people really love my work, and it thrills me to see all of your kind comments. This concludes the thirty six chapters I wrote for Ordinary, but it's not the end. The end, actually, is one you get to choose. In the comments section below, or on Twitter, please let me know if you would prefer a short epilogue or a story length sequel to Ordinary. The epilogue would be the same length as an average chapter and be posted in a week or two. The sequel would be roughly the length of this story, but you'd have to wait a few months for it. Let me know, and remember, every vote counts.