malignant drabble series part 2

Reccing Notes: Chloe discovers that not all is well with her at all, just when her life with Davis starts to come together. Just lovely and amazing and very true, not just to the characters, but to the situation. Ow!

by xxamlaxx at her livejournal
1648 words, pg-13, beast
Fear is visible in the lines of his mouth, the smooth skin on his cheeks, the pursing of his lips. “I haven’t been with other people in weeks Chloe.”

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“I don’t think we should do this.” Davis presses his hands flat against the mud wall of their hut, flattens himself into a corner, fingers curling into the adobe, like he’s trying to grip it, like he’s trying to dig in and hold on tight.

“Davis, we need food. I can’t leave you alone, and we can’t live off grass and the occasional potato.” She tugs at his t-shirt, gently rubs her palm against his back; soothes and encourages, calms and quiets.

“I’m afraid.” He whispers, soft and urgent, dark eyes squeezed shut. Fear is visible in the lines of his mouth, the smooth skin on his cheeks, the pursing of his lips. “I haven’t been with other people in weeks Chloe.”

“You’ll be fine. You’re with me, remember?” His hand is a warm, soft weight in hers; strong, flexible fingers interlocking with hers. Davis swallows and nods, scoots closer to her, until their hips are close to touching. The bright, yellow sunlight sends stabs of pain through her skull, makes her eyes tear up and water. “I’ll buy you a mango.” She walks her fingers up his arm, feels his biceps relax beneath her fingertips.

Davis holds her hand so tightly it hurts. They walk side by side down the dusty dirt path, over foot and hoof indentations deep in the dried mud. Their neighbor’s houses stand solemnly in a long line of adobe walls and rusty tin roofs. Children laugh and run the single street, all bare feet and giggles. A little girl with big brown eyes and pink ribbons in her dark hair trips and stumbles, falls onto her right arm hard. She hears a thud of a body hitting dirt and then the child is crying, cradling her limp arm as tears drip down her cheeks onto the ground. Chloe blinks once and then Davis’ hand is gone and he is crouched beside the five year old, examining her arm.

“You’re alright, it’s not broken.” Davis frowns when the little girl only stares up at him, wide, unblinking brown eyes glistening wetly. “Estas bien.” He says finally, picking a flower and tucking it behind her ear.

“Gracias Señor.” She stands on tiptoes to kiss Davis’ cheek, then hides her face in her hands and runs away.

“That was very sweet of you Davis.” She smiles at him, taking his hand once more. “Should I be jealous of your new girlfriend?”

“I only have eyes for you Chloe.”

Davis leans in to kiss her, and for the first time, she doesn’t pull away.


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“I want to go into the city today.” The pain inside her head has become unbearable, excruciating agony that persists every minute of the day, even in the warm, humid blackness of the night, while mosquitos buzz and hum in the air around her. “To a hospital.”

“Why?” Davis peeks out from behind the sheet dangling from the ceiling in the corner of their hut, his hair and the skin of his face glistening with water. “Are you feeling sick?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s a lack of medical supplies around here. And considering you’re a paramedic, I thought you could buy what you’d need to treat people around here.” It’s the truth and a lie and a half fabrication. She wants a doctor, MRI’s and CAT scans, x-rays and pictures of everything inside her head. “If you want to, of course, altruism has always been your defining characteristic after all.”

“That’s a great idea.” Davis beams at her, teeth and dimples, then pulls his head back out of sight and she can hear the soft trickling of water as he bathes, pours a bucket full of clear stream water over his body. “We’ll leave in an hour.”

The car jolts and bounces over the unpaved dirt road. Eight long hours of twists and turns, curves and bends, paths through vegetation, low hanging branches scraping over the car, stray leaves landing on the windshield. She sleeps, but it is light and fitful, wracked with pain as her continuous headache causes pain behind her eyelids. When she opens her eyes the sun is setting purple and pink behind the mountains, casting faint light on cracked concrete.

The hospital is little more than dirty linoleum floors and plastic orange chairs, coughing and crying children, fever flushed faces and dark skin. Davis leaves to speak with the hospital chairman, she sneaks off into an exam room, settles herself onto the thin mattress stuffed with straw.

“Hello. I am doctor Esteban. Perdoneme porfavor. My English is not so good. What is your problem?” He speaks slowly, in heavily accented English, holds a stethescope in his hands that was made in the 1970’s.

“I’ve had a headache for over two weeks. I think I need an MRI. My nose has been bleeding on and off for a week as well.”

“We no have MRI. Only X-ray. You need to go to capital.”

“Thank you.” She sighs, in pain and defeat.

“Here.” He holds out a plastic bottle, inside are white, oval capsules. “Morphine. Even if you go to capital, all they can treat is pain.”

“Are you saying I have a brain tumor?”

“Sí. You have symptoms, but go to capital for diagnoses.”

Davis proudly shows her a cardboard box filled with bandages and antibiotics when she slips back into the waiting room, pops one pill into her mouth and chews, tastes chalky bitterness.
She smiles at him, and mentions that the doctor said there are far more supplies available for them in the hospital in Santiago.


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Santiago is different. As the mountains shrink in the distance, expanse of green trees and blue sky disappearing behind them, the land shifts and transforms. The streets are paved, painted, divided evenly and there are telephone lines along the highway, train tracks, fast food restaurants with signs written in Spanish. With the decrease in altitude comes an increase in technology, modernity. By the time they enter the city limits it’s like their little mud walled hut near a stream doesn’t exist, is nothing more than an agrarian fantasy.

Painted houses and concrete apartment buildings sit near the street, separated from the asphalt by a long line of sidewalk. Children are playing soccer in the street, kicking a bright white and black ball, wearing tennis shoes and sneakers, clean white socks and jeans. The ball rolls in front of their car and before she can scream, before she can even think a little boy in a Mickey Mouse t-shirt darts after it. Her heart is hot in her throat, beating fast and hard and erratic, bringing fresh blood into her head and it hurts so bad…

Davis slams his foot down on the brake. The rubber tires screech, a piercing sound, leaving long, black lines that curl along the pavement. The car comes to an abrupt stop, inches from the young boy who is staring at them with wide brown eyes, soccer ball clutched in his small hands, holding it close to his chest. After a moment he waves and runs off, back to where his friends are sitting on the curb, waiting for their car to pass before their game can resume. The scene is heavy with childhood innocence, youthfulness. It reminds her of playing in the fields with Clark and Pete, weaving in-between tall stalks of golden corn.

“Are you coming in with me or do you want to stay in the car?” Davis pulls into the hospital parking lot, opens his door.

“I have to use the bathroom. I’ll meet you in the lobby.” She leans over, kisses his cheek, smells the homemade soap their neighbor makes for them.

“Good morning Señorita Sullivan.” The doctor is a middle aged man with a dark mustache. “You want an MRI?”

‘Yes. I’ve been having headaches; I have a note from another doctor.” She hands him the tiny piece of white folded paper. He reads the message slowly; she opens her bottle of morphine and pops another pill, chews and chews and swallows. Two days of driving and her supply of medication is already a quarter gone, her mouth tastes perpetually of bitterness and metal.

“Follow me please.” She dozes off in the MRI, falls asleep to the loud hum of machinery and when she wakes Dr. Vasquez’s mouth is one firm press of lips, one thin, grim line.

“It’s not good, is it?” She knows and she’s expecting it, can feel everything that’s wrong inside her head, the pain and the confusion, the wrongness of it all.

“No. It is very strange; I have never seen this before.” He takes a deep breath, releases it in a slow exhalation, breathes out nervousness and pity. “Much of your brain is a tumor. Usually a tumor grows out of the brain, but yours…ah, como se dice…Yours is tumor. It is like part of your brain was damaged and removed, like the cells were ripped apart and now they are growing back as cancer.” He shakes his head, puts a warm, friendly hand on her shoulder. “I am sorry. We can do chemo and radiation, but it will give you extra month at most.”

“How long do I have?” She swallows hard, swallows down worry and grief. When she dies, so does the human side of Davis.

“Three months, maybe four.”

“Thank you.” She stands up to leave, is overcome by a sudden rush of dizziness. Everything sways and blurs and spins, dwindles in and out of focus.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. My other doctor gave me a bottle of these; can I get an extra to take home with me?” She rattles her morphine, tucks the bottle back into her pocket.

“Of course. Usually I would not, because they are addicting, but it does not matter much with you.”

“No, no it doesn’t.”

Davis has two cardboard boxes of supplies in his arms when she meets him in the waiting room of the hospital.

“You were in the bathroom a long time, are you okay?”

“Fine, I decided to look around, waiting for you can get boring, believe it or not.”

“Let’s go.”
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