I had been having random jolts of pain for a few weeks before I decided that it was enough. My girlfriend told me to go see a doctor and make sure that I was fine. I told her I was. I told her I did not need a doctor and that it was most likely the intense work that I did during the day. When in reality all that I did at work was sign papers and make sure that deliveries came on time.

I just wanted to reassure her. Because what I hated more than hurting, was seeing others get hurt because of me. So of course, I lied.

I was shocked when the doctor told me. I was not sure if I should cry or just suck it up. What would crying do for me? Add a few more months? I had not expected death. Who would have?

Hey, you’re dying. Not really something that brightens someone’s day, is it?

This is not where my story starts, but rather the beginning of my end.

I hated having to live ten more months while deceiving everyone,  but I would, because I didn’t feel like telling the world about my misfortunes. It would feel like bragging from their standpoint, seeing that they still had many miserable years ahead of them.

Me? I just have more than half a year.

Yes, bragging. Let me just put it that way.

Maybe I should tell everyone. Brag about how I was going to leave the hell hole for good.

Brag.

Brag.

But I didn’t do it.

Because I knew that calling it bragging wouldn’t change the fact that I would be dying and leaving everyone behind.