(c) The Wisher Girl (PG)

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(c) The Wisher Girl (PG)

Post by the lover. on Tue 23 Sep 2008, 4:05 pm

Title. The Wisher Girl.
Rating. PG.
Author. Moi. (the lover.)
Status. Complete.

Autobiographical. 756 words. No specifics. No names. Only Wisher Girl.

There are a million things that she will never do, and they both know it.


I can feel this body dying all around me. It is a timer, counting down the moments until we reach 00:00:00. I can feel this skin peeling away from me, recoiling as though in fear of what I’m bound to become. I can feel these muscles tire and decay with each movement I make and I am aware of the growing strain on this heart with every breath I take. I can feel these bones wearing down; they are brittle and old and are constantly losing strength. I can see youth and beauty fall away from me and it makes me afraid. I am afraid of this body; I am afraid of the way I feel in my own skin.

An excerpt from the poem Almostverynearly by V. B.


She chatters on, like she’s not going to die in eight days. And she should chatter on like she’s not going to die in eight days because she doesn’t know that she’s going to die in eight days. Neither does Wisher Girl. But they both know that she’s going to die sometime.

Everyone dies sooner or later. Everyone wears out. Some people make a wrong move. Some people are in the wrong place at the wrong time. But no matter how it happens, everyone dies sooner or later.

The thing is, she’s going to die sooner than later. Sooner than she should, anyway. She should live a long life, or at least graduate from secondary school. She should travel the world, strut down a catwalk like she always dreamt of doing. She should, she should, she should... but she won’t.

She’ll never graduate from secondary school. She’ll never travel the world. She’ll never strut down a catwalk. She’ll never be asked for her autograph. She’ll never appear on the big screen. She’ll never get married or even have a boyfriend. She’ll never have children. She’ll never have grandchildren to tell stories about “the good old days” to. There are a million things that she will never do, and they both know it.

But despite this she talks continuously, pausing every so often for breath. She pauses again and looks at Wisher Girl pointedly. She doesn’t do this very often but this is Wisher Girl’s cue for input. She tries to push down the lump in her throat so that she can say something but instead she has to make due with a nod.

For a while, neither of the two girls say anything. They are both thinking about the journals. The girl in the hospital bed gave her journals to Wisher Girl, as a gift. Some of the poems are very personal and very sad and when Wisher Girl reads them, she cries a little. Some of the poems are almost funny and when Wisher Girl reads them, she laughs and feels a little better.

She remembers a one-liner, at the very beginning of the second journal.

Cancer is quite a clusterfuck.

She laughs involuntarily.

“What’s so funny?”

“I just thought of that one-liner.”


“Uh huh.”

“Did you read the one after that?”

“Oh yeah. Very, Oscar Wilde-esque.”

“I had Lady Bracknell and Mister Bunbury in mind when I wrote it.”

Wisher Girl paused, for a thought had just occurred to her. “Bunbury dies in The Importance of Being Earnest.”

“He’s an imaginary character, though.”

It’s not use trying to console her now. Whatever had lightened the room’s atmosphere was gone now and Wisher Girl looked tired and much older than her age of twelve.

“It’s not that bad, really.” Wisher Girl wants to scream. It is that bad, really. Wisher Girl is going to lose her and all she can do is sit and watch as her friend crumbles and fades away. Every night, before she goes to sleep (though she never really sleeps), Wisher Girl makes a wish on a star. She used to wish for silly things, like dolls and chocolate and more Christmas presents that her little sister. Now, she wishes for a miracle.

Wisher Girl laughs inwardly at herself. A miracle. The only kind of miracles She’s ever seen were the two-dimensional ones in Prince of Egypt. That doesn’t provide much hope.

“I mean, I’d rather not but I haven’t got much of a choice, have I?” For the first time in the longest time, her friend looks sad. “It’ll be like when Nana Bee died. You’ll be sad like that. And you’ll miss me. You might cry sometimes. But someday you’ll be okay. Someday it will hurt less.”

checked: shorty.
the lover.
the lover.
Red Scare

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