Blood Will Always Tell Part 1 (Chapters 1-8)

Chapter 1

The beach was calm and the evening sea breeze was cool on my skin. The smell of salt was fresh in the air, and the sound of waves lapping gently at the shore, topped off by the sparkling of the slowly setting sun on the ocean. The sky was orange and pink, no clouds dotted the shrinking horizon.

I sat on the sun warmed sand, drip drying and salty, with a breathlessness I had not experienced before.

This was my daily routine, this was my life. Every working day finished the same, and would do for as long as I could imagine.

The sun had disappeared, and the cool night had begun to settle in. Flies buzzed and hummed around my face as I walked up the sandy trail, away from the water. The ground was cool and pleasant, the sand shifted eagerly between my toes, and each step I took was bliss. The evening to night change over belongs to the poets and the madmen, which one I was, I could not say. Preferably the former, and not the latter.

It was a short walk home from the beach. The ground was hard and an unwelcome feel after the cushioning sand.

Lethargy began to take over my body once more, and short, raspy breaths escaped my narrowing throat. It felt as though I was choking on the very oxygen needed to survive.

I stopped walking and sat on a wooden pylon, trying to catch my breath. A hundred meters or so from home, but I had no energy to get there.

'You alright Simon?' a voice called out. I looked up to see the smiling face of my neighbour, Tom.

'Yeah mate,' I said, breathless. 'Just out of breath is all.'

Tom began to make his way over towards me. I stood up, stubborn as all hell.

One thing you'll learn about me is I hate to show any weakness. Every and all weakness, can, will and should be hidden.

I stumbled slightly as I stood, my legs were heavy like lead, but weak and unstable like jelly. Tom grabbed my shoulder and held me up.

'Jeez mate,' he started. 'You sure you're okay?'

'Yeah I'm fine,' I said. 'A bit tired, that's all.'

'Well, I'll help you home.'

He grabbed my arm and placed it over his shoulder. Half walking, and half carried by Tom, I made my way to within a few meters of my house.

'What'd you go for a run or something?' he asked. 'Push yourself too hard?'

'Yeah,' I lied. 'You know, just trying to stay fit and healthy.'

'Well you don't look too healthy right now.'

We got to the door, and I took my arm off of Tom's shoulders, and my knees wobbled slightly. My breath had not returned completely, the occasional short and spluttering exhale escaped my lips.

I muttered my thanks to Tom, and he left without a word. The door creaked as it slowly shut behind me, and I collapsed onto the floor, drifting off into the void of shadows and nothingness.

Chapter 2

Something was ringing. A high pitched, ear piercing screech, echoed around me in all directions. Blurs of red and white surrounded me, and a heavy pain erupted from my face, as tears slowly dripped off of my cheeks.

The floor came into focus, my eyes adjusted and made sense of what was in front of me. My face was in a pooling red substance, sticky and thick and warm. Clots of blood stuck to my jaw, and I rose slowly to my feet. The room began to swirl and turn, as the blood rushed away from my head, and my consciousness began to leave me once more.

And then, it was gone. The dizzy feeling, the blurring of the room, the tears from my eyes, the mind numbing ringing. All stopped, all gone.

Globs of blood dripped from my nostrils, and I looked at the pool of red around my feet. I walked to the bathroom, leaving a trail of scarlet footprints and crimson dots on the stark white marble floors. My nose was swollen and glowing, my eyes sunken and heavy. I smiled. Blood filled the gaps between my teeth, and I spat a wad of congealed red.

I cleaned my face and left stains in the ceramic basin.

My nose continued to bleed consistently for an hour, without stop, without reprieve, as though someone had left the tap on in the kitchen. Except the tap was my nose, and the water was blood, precious blood.

I stuffed tissue after tissue up both nostrils, forced to breathe with my mouth. The thick balls of blood soaked tissue were left around the house, clues as to where I had been. Kitchen, lounge room, bathroom, now the dining room. My half eaten, medium rare steak and the side vegetables grew old, cold and inedible on the table. Each bite tasted of blood, but not from the rawness of the steak.

I sat up, and my nose bleed began to lessen. Three hours after the fall that initiated the bleed, and three hours later it still dripped. Bit by bit, I lost precious life fluid. My eyes were sagging and struggling to stay open, mother sleep was calling me to her humble warmth. The pain in my face had lessened, but only slightly.

I lay my head back on my pillow, and could feel the blood swishing and sloshing in my sinus'. The taste filled my mouth, the coppery metallic taste, like licking aluminium foil. My palate tingled and my tongue squirmed in an attempt to rid itself of the taste.

Something just didn't feel right as I woke the next day. My head pounded, throbbing with each beat of my morning alarm. Beep, throb. Beep, throb. Beep, throb.

My nose had stopped bleeding, crusty flakes of dark crimson clogged both nostrils, and each scratch sent them floating down onto my bedspread.

'You're fine,' I told myself. 'Stop whinging and get out of bed.'

I slipped out of my covers, and stood. It was then I realised I was not okay. Vertigo hit me like a baseball batter striking a homer, and I fell back onto my bed, dizzy, shaking and nauseas.

Chapter 3

It was cold in the room of the doctor's office. The stark white walls of the small medical room seemed to insulate the cool of the air conditioner. Goosebumps dotted my skin, and the hairs on my arms and leg rose and stood to attention.

It was quiet in the room of the doctor's office. No sound seemed to breach these walls.

No sound of the air conditioner humming as it continued to fill the room, pumping it with brisk, cold, manufactured air. No knock on the door from the receptionist, nor a phone call for the doctor. Not even my own breathing was audible. Just, silence. Eerie and unrelenting.

In times of such incapacitating silence, man made his own sounds to combat it. Whether physically opening his mouth and screaming, or his mind wandering off and reliving another time.

However for me, neither happened. I did not scream. My mind did not wander. Instead I just sat there, as still as the frozen trees on a cold winters morning. I stared at the doctor; the lines of stubble on his chin, the milk moustache painted on his upper lip, the saliva collecting in the corner of his pursed lips.

And suddenly, the silence was broken. Nothing can last for an eternity. Silence, life, freedom, power, it is all inevitable to wither and die.

'Mr. Cooper, I hope you will understand what I am about to tell you?' said the doctor.

I nodded, dreading the words that were to come. Since before the tests I thought it true, that I was on my way out. The icy claws of death were  approaching, ready to throttle me into submission.

'The blood tests from a week or so ago noted an... abnormality, if you will,' he started. 'It has lead us to believe that you have Leukaemia. I am so sorry, Mr. Cooper.'

I swallowed, yet a lump stayed lodged in my throat. My eyes closed, and all I could see was dancing lights of blue, green and red. Inhaling through my nose, I sighed, and opened my eyes. The light bounced off of the walls and blinded me through fresh tears.

'Mr. Cooper, I hope you understand what I have just said,' he continued. 'But further tests must be done in order to confirm this. I don't wish to breathe hope into a situation where there may not be any, but initial "abnormalities" can often be dismissed by further testing.'

I paused, and I had no idea why. Adding to the climax, infusing the situation with pure intrigue, increasing the tension in the room.

'I understand,' I said. 'Inner strength is the ability to give oneself hope. Despair is a road that leads to nothing.'

I stood, breathed deeply, stuck out my hand to shake the doctor's and walked out of the room with splashes of fresh tears on my red cheeks.

Chapter 4

Emptiness is an odd feeling to have. It's heavy, and draining, and resembles in no way what the word emptiness represents. Right now, I am hollow, weighed down with emotional emptiness. I can't understand it, nor do I want to, all I know is that I feel empty.

I sat in my car in front of the doctor's surgery. The radio spluttered in the background, buzzing and humming with excitement and current events, but all I heard was white noise.

The blistering heat swept through my car, it radiated off the dashboard and enveloped me like a fire storm. Sweat dripped slowly off of my damp hair, my cheeks covered with dots of perspiration.

'Leukaemia,' I said to myself. Even the word was hard to say.

I put my car into gear and drove off, legs shaking, eyes teary, and forehead sweaty.

My mother wouldn't just cry. She would screech, and yell, and her heart would break. She would bawl and lie wordless, unable to speak. I knew this. Anxiety crept up on me like the villain on an unsuspecting character in a horror movie. It lurched in my throat and sent my heart into a panic. You know that feeling when you can physically feel your heart beating? The heavy thrum of the contraction against the left part of your chest. It made me sick, and dizzy. I hate that feeling.

I stopped at the door of my mother's house, my childhood home. I placed my hand on the door and felt tears gathering in my eyes. The flywire, now quivering and blurry. It's amazing how the smallest things can make you sad when you receive bad news. Even something as insignificant as a door has the ability to reach deep inside you and tug on your emotions.

I sighed, and knocked softly on rusty metal door frame.

'Simon?' a frail voice called. 'What're you doing here? You should have called.'

Mum always had a way of words with greetings.

'Get inside, hurry up,' she said, ushering me into the house. 'I thought you were the bloody postman, I've been waiting for a delivery all day.'

'Well I may not be the postman,' I said with a breath. 'But I have some news, sit down Mum.'

For once in her life, mum did as she was told. She was normally a domineering woman. Strong, fierce and proud, and always on the defensive when her actions were called into question.

'Good or bad?' she questioned.

'Pardon me?'

'Good news or bad?' she said. 'Which is it?'

'Bad,' I said. 'Depending on how you look at it.'

I could already feel the sadness in the room, her heart slowly breaking, tearing into two separate pieces. Sadness and depression.

'Don't tell me you've knocked up some poor girl, Simon,' she started. 'You're going to have to marry her now.'

'No Mum,' I said. 'Worse news. I have-'

The words caught in my throat, as though I couldn't bring myself to say them. Not for my own sake, the word had come somewhat freely as I rehearsed what I would say to my mother. But I knew that mentioning it would shatter her.

'Simon,' she said. 'Tell me, what is it?'

'L-Leukaemia.' I said.  

She froze. Her face sunk, and tears began to fall as heavy as rain in a dark storm. The room seemed to embrace the sadness. She groaned with pain, as her heart wrenched in her chest.

Chapter 5

As hard as it was to tell my mother, I knew it would only get worse from here on. Mother was similar to level one of a video game, I knew how she would take it, and how it would hurt her, though seeing her cry and hearing the soul ripping pain in her sobs was not easy.

My father on the other hand, not even the Lord knew how he would react. Supposedly he has a heart of gold, but his tough as nuts exterior hides that like a pearl in the ocean.

One thing is for sure, I've never seen the man cry. He has never shed a tear, or so I'm lead to believe.

The day was bright and cheerful, hardly a true expression of how I was feeling. The sun politely greeted you each time you stepped foot outside, with a comforting, warm embrace.

The blue skies seemed to carry on forever.

I walked inside the building, greeted by stale musty air, and the sounds of heavy machinery sawing, chopping and slicing away at metal. My father sat in his office, looking out through his window that looked over the reception area, and the front door. He smiled, and waved me in, his phone clutched tightly in his hand, and pressed firmly against his ear.

'Yeah mate, if you want I can knock off a bit of the price if you promise to sign the contract with us...' I heard him saying as I entered the office.

I sat down in one of the two firm fabric chairs, directly opposite my father's desk and chair.

My father looked at me. He held up his two fingers like a peace sign, and mouthed; two seconds mate.

Funny how time can become so important once you properly take notice of it, and realise how little time you have left. No? Must be only me then. I'm hoping you never experience it. It leaves you, empty. 

'Hey listen mate, my son's here, so I better get going. We'll discuss this soon,' my father said as he pulled his phone away and tossed it aside like a piece of scrap paper.

He pressed his hands together and looked at me.

'What do you want Simon?' he asked, smiling. But his smile quickly faded. 'You look terrible.'

'I've got some news, Dad,' I said.

'You're going to be a father?' he asked. 'I knew it. Mate how many times have I told you to use protection. You can't rely on what some whore from a club says. On the pill, off the pill, it makes no difference, you have to -'

'Dad! That's not it,' I said. 'I went to the doctor today and-'

'And what?' he asked. 'I don't want to hear it if it's serious.'

He stood and turned his back, shuffling papers on his filing cabinet awkwardly.

I remained silent, unable to speak. How could he be so heartless, so unsupportive. I felt a sickness deep in my stomach, as though I was about to vomit. My hands were clammy, my vision seemed to fade instantly, and the room darkened.

'So what is it?' he asked, his back still turned to me. 'And how much will it cost to fix?'

'Leukaemia,' I breathed. 'And it's unlikely to be fixable.'

He slammed his fist so hard on the metal filing cabernet I was sure I heard his bones break. The sound seemed to echo throughout the entirety of the building, or so it seemed to do so in my head.

My father turned and faced me, tears were building in his eyes. I could see his struggle, his fight to stop the tears from flowing. One man fighting a losing battle against sadness.

'Terminal?' he asked. It seemed to be the only word he could utter.

'I need further testing to confirm,' I said choking. 'But it appears so.'

My dad inhaled deeply, his eyes closed, chin raised to the sky. In my heart I knew he was saying a silent prayer. Not to God, just to the sky. Asking for a miracle. Wishing for hope.

'Inner strength is the ability to give oneself hope,' he said.

'Despair is a road that leads to nothing,' I replied.

'I'll come with you for your next tests,' he said.

And with that, I left.

Chapter 6

I sat on the beach and wept. The sand absorbed my tears like a sponge, and hid them from sight. All that was left was the dots of wet, coagulated sand.  The midday sun was high and mighty, blazing overhead like a God; with a watchful, warming gaze, staring down upon the miniscule creatures of this small piece of the solar system, like a child staring at bugs. The waves crashed and splashed, choppy and unruly from the strong sea breeze. The sea was a mess, a ramshackle, a clusterfu-, I probably shouldn't swear, now is not the time to curse. Though I could scream, and cuss, and shout my lungs out, what good would it do me now?

I watched the people frolicking in the water, on the sand. Laughing, playing, enjoying life. Unaware, or playing ignorant to life's curveballs, its instant decisions to turn everything upside down, and death's inevitability. Its cool breath on the back of your neck, its  fingers around your throat, its dark cloud waiting overhead, ready to start the downpour. The drumbeat is there, the sound of demise and the echoing boom of time ticking over, one second at a time your life comes closer to its inexorable expiration.

I've realised I have changed. It hasn't even been a day, and already my outlook on life is different.

My once warm heart has turned cold, as though I'm already dead. The heated rays of happiness cannot penetrate the sadness in my soul. I look at these people laughing, smiling, and happy, and it makes me sick. Well, sicker.

I don't envy them, I don't despise them. I only pity them. I pity their happiness, unbeknownst to me as why I feel like this.

It's that emptiness coming back. The lack of feeling, the lack of thought. The lack of warmth.

I could not bear it much longer. It all seemed like a farce, a facade, a falsity. The warm sun, the happy smiles and infectious laughter all plagued this place like a rotten disease, filling the space with positive filth.

I have to leave. I stand and walk away, with dried tears stained on my cheeks, and wet sand stuck to my clothes. The cold wind began to rise and the hairs on my legs and arms stood at attention, saluting the sky.

I walked up the path, the same path I had trekked up and down every day of my life, leaving the one place that used to bring me solace, but now only brought pity and pain, misery and emptiness.

Chapter 7

Days had passed and the pain was still fresh. My father sat next to me, with one of his feet resting on the opposite knee, his face buried in a pamphlet, which could only be information on Leukaemia.

I hate hospitals. They're dreary, depressing places that reek of sterilisation, you know that "too clean" smell? It makes me want to throw up.

'Cooper?' they called. I did not move. 'Simon Cooper?'

A sharp elbow to the ribs from Dad and I was out of my seat.

'You can't elbow a guy who has leukaemia,' I whispered. 'Talk about kicking a guy while he's down.'

'Not funny mate,' Dad said. 'Now move, before I give you another.'

The nurses shoes clicked and clacked along the marble-plastic floors. Dad followed close behind, and I could feel his breath on my back. Occasionally I would receive a quick prod in the spine, unbeknownst to me as why. Maybe I was walking too slowly for his liking. I guess time is important when you have so little of it left.

We passed room after room of dying souls. Withering men and women, slowly slipping from the dreary white hospital, to    the caliginous depths of death itself.

'Wait here,' the nurse said bluntly.

We stood outside a room. A man, bed ridden and holding on to the gentle thread of life with a quivering grasp. Clinging to the edge, ready to plummet into the nothingness. The respirator wheezed with each breath he took, a stark, metallic wheeze of manmade breath and no natural life. Dad was looking elsewhere, while I stared at what I could see myself becoming.

'Dad,' I grasped his shoulder and turned him towards the dying man. 'I want you to promise me something.'

'What is it?'

'If I ever end up like that,' I pointed, 'that you'll do what's right. If I cannot eat or drink or go to the toilet myself, you'll put me down.'

He looked at me sternly. 'Don't be ridiculous, you're fine, you wont end up like that.'

'And what if I do? Promise me you'll do what's right. I know you'd ask me to do the same if our positions were swapped.'

He laughed. 'You know, if I was in your position, I'd just take a nice long swim out to sea...' he said. 'But, you're going to fight this, and I promise if you end up like that wheezer over there, I will do what is necessary.'

'Thanks Dad.'

The nurse came back and ushered us further into the hospital. We passed room after room of artificially living people. Men, women and even children who should be dead, but are kept alive by modern technology, and the hopes of their loved ones believing that their little mundane life is better than death.

In my mind I couldn't think of a worse hell, not being self sufficient. Being a burden on my family is not an aspiration of mine.

Chapter 8

I walked out of the tiny little room out into the reception area, with a few holes in my arm, covered by cotton wool balls and medical tape. It feels like these past few days have been just one big wait. Waiting for myself to feel better, waiting to find out if I'm terminally ill or not, waiting for death. Is life not just one big waiting game?

Dad managed to rip me out of my deeper thoughts, as he had done so oh so many times throughout my life.

'Look at this clown,' he said pointing to a man with a limp, 'what's wrong with him?'

I smiled and just took it in. My father was an inconsiderate man externally, but inside he was caring and loving. Years of tough love from his own parents pushed those positive emotions deep inside, rarely do they see the light of day.

'Aye?' he gave me a nudge. I shrugged, and stayed silent.

'I know this seems morbid, but to be unprepared for the worst possible outcome is irresponsible and down right stupid if you ask me, Simon,' he said. 'Have you written out your will?'

'Yeah and your not bloody in it!' I said to him with a smile. 'You've got enough money.'

'Fwah,' he scoffed. 'It's not like you've got anything to your name anyway Simon.'

'I've got enough,' I said. 'And no, I haven't written out my will. I'll be sure to do that, don't be expecting too much from me though.'

'Don't put me in, I wouldn't want to inherit your debt,' he said with a smile.

'It'll go evenly to you and mum and you can both decide on what to do with it all,' I said.

'Don't talk nonsense Simon, you'll be fine.'

His face was grim and serious, the wrinkles on his forehead were furrowed, and he looked me straight in the eyes.

'Don't be so upset about your situation,' he said. 'Use it, harness it, and fight it, like you've fought everything in your life so far. You're strong, Simon, and damned well stubborn, so I don't expect you to give up so easily.'

Tears began to build in my eyes. My father had never spoken so kindly of me before. I tried to say my thanks, but the words wouldn't pass my throat. I opened my mouth, but was interrupted by the nurse.

'Mr. Cooper, please come in and take a seat.' she said, gesturing us over.

I stood with a sigh, and walked over to the office, followed closely behind by my father.

Blackout: Part 1.

Jack lay in his bed awake, sitting on his laptop, while outside rain fell hard on the tin fence just outside his window. The glaring white light of his screen illuminated his face, and the room was black around him. His eyes stung, back ached, and he wanted to sleep. But he couldn't.

The life of an insomniac is an odd one to watch. They never sleep, but they're never truly awake. It's almost as if they are stuck in the limbo of dreams and reality. Jack was in such a state, as his confused eyes stared blankly at the screen.

"What am I doing?" he said.

And again he sat, silently waiting for the darkness to answer him, as though someone were listening.

"I should be asleep," he said. "Why can't I sleep?"

This was becoming a routine for Jack. He would stare at his screen with confusion, unable to comprehend exactly why he was on his laptop in the first place. An empty document was up on his screen, the typing line flashing on and off, ready for words to be written. But the only words that came were from Jack's mouth, not his fingers. Every night he asked himself these questions, and every night he waited for an answer that never came.

It wasn't until the rays of the morning sunshine slipped through the curtains, that Jack realised he'd been awake for yet another night. His heavy eyes drooped and blinked slowly. They were open, but did not see, just blankly watched the world go past as though it were a distraction, like a TV show in the background while reading a book.

Jack got out of bed, threw on a shirt, and walked out of his bedroom to the kitchen.

"Morning," said Ellen, Jack's roommate.

"Ergh," he grunted.

"No sleep?"

"No sleep."

"You should see a doctor."

"I'll be fine."

"You don't look fine."

"I'll be fine."

"Would you like some breakfast?" Ellen asked. "I'm making pancakes."

"Sure."

Ellen looked at Jack as he sat on the kitchen bench, staring out the window. His tanned skin glowed softly in the dawn sunlight.

"How many do you want?"

"I don't know."

Jack reached for the radio, and switched it on.

"... unusual seismic activity in the countries north has been recorded, and has meteorologists and seismologists baffled. Some religious groups have called it: 'a sign from God that the rapture is near,' and now more than one doomsday theory is beginning to pop up. But right now, that's all speculation. We'll keep you updated, as soon as we hear more." 

"Crackpots," said Jack. "Every bloody decade the world's supposed to end. Why can't people be content with the fact we aren't going to be wiped out in the near future."

"I don't know Jack, is this what keeps you up at night?" she said. He stayed silent, staring angrily at the radio.  "Pancakes are ready."

The sun was nearing it's highest point when Jack walked out the door, it's bright rays blinding him in a sea of white. As per usual, the weather was warm, the sky was clear, and the wind provided the soft kiss of summer.

Ellen followed him out, slamming the door shut.

"Is it closed?" Jack asked sarcastically.

"Go to work. You're already late."

Jack slid into his car, started the engine, and pulled out of the driveway, waving to Ellen as he left. She didn't wave back.

Traffic was abnormally heavy for a Thursday morning, and Jack knew now he was certain to be late. One thing he loved about stop start traffic though, was watching people in their cars; either singing along with the radio, talking to themselves, or fixing their look in the mirror. The car became a personal space, and people acted as though no one could see them. Jack loved being a fly on the wall.

"... more and more people are coming up with theories..." a soft little voice said from the radio.

Jack pulled himself from his people watching, and turned his attention to the radio, turning the volume up.

"... some people have gone as far to suggest that the Earth's core has become unstable. Professor Collins joins us in the studio today. Professor, what do you suggest is happening?'

'Well Angela, I believe that we could be facing a slight catastrophe in the next coming weeks, or so my studies suggest -"

"More doomsday bullshit," said Jack.

"... We hate to give off a 'doomsday' vibe, but this is the conclusion all our studies and research has come to. We're expecting a possible EMP blast, or an electro-magnetic pulse to be expounded by the Earth's core, which, in turn, will leave all electronics completely and utterly useless. Planes will fall, cars will crash, and boats will sink. If this, EMP does strike, then society will crumble into chaos, and the Stone Age will arise once more, resulting in the deaths of millions and -"

Jack slammed the palm of his hand into the radio, turning it off. He sighed and continued his bumper to bumper journey to work.

The day was slow, and long. Every minute or so, Jack would glance up from his dingy little desk at the clock on the wall of his small office. Time itself seemed to almost stop.

At one point, Jack stared aimlessly at the clock, transfixed on the second hands movement. Tick. Tick. Tick. A knock on the door brought him back to reality, and Clive stepped in.

"Hey Jack," he said. "How're you today?"

"I've been better. Still can't sleep, you know how it is."

"Ah, I see." he said. "Have you heard about these doomsday predictions?"

"I have."

"And I bet you think they're utter nonsense, don't you?"

"Sure do."

"See, I was in your boat about ten minutes ago. I figured, 'This is just some more Y2K bull, that will have people scared, but won't amount to anything, but-"

"And that's exactly what it will be."

"But," Clive emphasised, "there was no physical proof for the Y2K theory."

"And what proof is there of this EMP rubbish?"

"The tectonic plates. Turn on your radio."