Brian groaned, and hit the off button on the TV remote with a little more force than necessary. He sighed. MTV always blew everything out of porportion. He didn't really think that one little surgery was enough to be broadcast on their little 10-to-the-hour News show. He'd done it before, after all. It wasn't like it was a huge deal. Besides, what did his heart have to do with 'N Sync's new CD doing better than theirs?
He fell backwards on the little hospital bed, flinching at how hard the mattress was, and having to sit up and rub his back when he hit what felt like a block of wood hidden under a layer of sheets. "This place sucks." He annouced to the empty room.
There was a white phone on the bedside table. He wondered if he would seem to desperate if he called Nick already. After all, he'd only be in the hospital for about an hour, and Nick was the one who's dropped him off. So, he'd only seen him about 45 minutes ago. Which, he sadly concluded, meant that he'd seem like an idiot if he called so soon. Not to mention that if he called now, Nick would know he was worried about his surgery, and that would cause all the guys to worry. Which he didn't need right now.
Brian wasn't even sure why he was so worried about this. He'd gone through everything before. But there was still this fear in the back of his mind. It was a little fear, true, but it was still there. And as much as he hated to admit it, with every minute that his surgery drew nearer, he felt more and more anxious. The chance of him not making it was small. Miniscuale, actaully. But it was still there.
He looked at his watch again. It was now officially 50 minutes after Nick had left. "This is stupid." He said, speaking again to the empty room. He was in this same hospital last time he'd had problems with his heart, and he remembered where there was a library at the end of this wing. He wasn't necessarily that into reading, but it was something that could get his mind off of his approaching surgery. Besides, he could probably take his notepad down there, and work on a few songs. That usually helped him take his mind off things.
He nodded resolutly, deciding that that would be the best thing to do. His notepad was on the table by the phone, so he grabbed that, alond with a pen, and made his way down to the library.
Her straw blond hair was in two briads, and she was dressed in a little red and white jumper, with cake frosting on her nose, and mud slattered on her new black party shoes. Rose could barely even fathom that the girl in the picture was her. She looked away from the picture, and into the mirror. A frown immediatly crossed her face.
She was bone-thin now. And she was covered in sickly looking bruises. Her hair was all but gone now, and when she wasn't wearing her wig, every vein on her head was visable. She looked at the hospital robe she was wearing, and wished for her little red jumper harder than she'd ever wished for anything before.
But those weren't the biggest differences between the picture and the real thing. The biggest difference was the smile. The smile on the eight-year-old-Rose was worry-free. Her biggest worry would have been whether or not her parents bought her the puppy she wanted. Eighteen-year-old-Rose forced her thin face into a smile. It looked nothing like the one she was immitating. Her mouth was in the same shape, yes. But there was something behind the smile that made it different. And that something was the knowlage that she was very possibally going to die. Tonight, even.
She shook her head, and blinked away the tears that were forming in her eyes. It was amazing how, even after all this time, thinking about her death never failed to make her start crying. As it well should, she decided. But still, she would have thought that as much as her body had changed, her mind would have changed, too. But apparently not. She was still the same old her.
Rose wasn't sure whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. If someone had asked her a year ago whether or not she liked herself, she would have said yes, without missing a beat. But now. . . she wasn't so sure. Everything she used to like about herself now bothered her. She didn't like her appearance anymore. That was for sure. And she didn't like the fact that she was going to graduate at the top of her class, since she'd left school for the stupid hospital before graduation, and she never got the chance. And she didn't like her poetry anymore.
Poetry had been a big thing with Rose. It still was, really. But now, she was done writing about spring and flowers and sunshine and love. Now she wrote about death and depression, and hate. Which made for a very depressing poem. But she couldn't help it. Even when she tried to stop writing all together, she couldn't. It was such a big part of her. She couldn't give something like that up.
Speaking of which, a poem started forming in her head. She grabbed the little notebook off her bed, and left the room. There was a library here that was always deserted. She liked to go there to write, for a little peace and quiet. So she pulled her wig on (just incase she met someone), wrapped a robe around her, and made her way down to the end of the hall.
