C6 Rose

Our living room was small, with a few comfortable white couches neatly arranged in

it.

My dad had decorated it simple but beautiful. The wall where the TV was positioned

was lined with trays and cupboards, fancy objects that were kept there whose

functions I couldn't decipher.

There was just one window on the left wall from where I sat.

I had dimmed the lights; they made me squint my eyes each time I entered the

room.

The eerily sound that came from the clock ticking on the wall stood out in the

deafening silence.

The TV was muted, I muted it myself.

Why? I didn't fucking know.

I was in my usual off-mode today.

My eyes were glued to the muted TV. It was one of my favourite TV shows.

My muse, my wannabe woman was a guest in the show.

Emily Brooker, the legendary city queen of New York City.

She was a popular runway model in her prime.

I've read every documentary about her, read all the articles I could find that had her

face on it.

Was it the Aura she possessed?

Or her eloquent dresses that dropped the jaws of her paparazzi and photographers.

Or the way she walked gracefully, swaying her hips, knowing fully well her presence

stunned everyone, the ones that could admit it at least. She knew she had a lot of

shades coming from her fellow gender as they declared some of her clothes vulgar.

I admired her so much even more when Dad told me at a certain time that I looked

just like her. It was the best thing I heard that day, and I added it to my list of

childhood highlights in my head.

I don't know if he said that to make me feel better about myself but still.

Still.

It worked.

But here's the sad thing.

I look far from Emily Brooker now. Though she had turned a bit grey she still

conserved her charming smile

Her beauty was still untouched.

In my case, I'm the reflection of Emily in her old age. Like a close-to-the-grave kind.

Lean, pale Emily Brooker in Rose's body.

I scoffed, laughing at the thoughts I projected in my head.

“What's amusing, pumpkin?” Dad appeared from nowhere. I had missed his arrival

from work when I had lost myself in my deep thoughts, crowning it by comparing my

pathetic self to the ever-glamorous Emily Brooker.

“Welcome Dad. How was work?” I remained seated, still glued to the TV.

He's been returning home early lately.

“Work was great, my love.” He came to my side and kissed me on the side of my

temple, ruffling my hair. He smelled of grease and his usual cologne, “You've eaten

the food I prepared for you and kept in the microwave, righ..?” He stopped to ask as

he looked up at the TV.

“Hold up.” He grabbed the remote control from where it sat on the armrest of the

couch to put the volume.

keeping the volume at average.

“Rose, darling, why is the TV mute?” his brows furrowed.

“Nothing.”

He was in my front the next second, blocking my view.

Gosh…I just want to have my TV time; it's not like that's not what I do all day.

“Rose?”

“Yes, Dad.” I raised my eyes to reach his eye level.

He sighed deeply, kneeling in front of me.

I almost rolled my eyes.

He held out his hands, wanting me to put mine in them

I did.

“Sweetheart, please tell me what is wrong.” He looked back at the TV before he

continued, “That's your favourite TV show; that's Emily Brooker, your muse on the

TV, and you're watching her without the sound.”

“Tell me what's wrong.” He held my hands firmly, brushing the back of my palms with

his thumbs.

“Would you like us to go to the cinema?”

“No.”

I waited a few seconds.

How do I start this question, he wouldn't tell me what I want to hear.

It's not even about the sickness, I feel myself slowly disintegrating each day.

I know I'm sick but Dad keeps trying to mask everything off.

“What about school Dad? wouldn't I go to prom, Dad?”

He had seen the tears that had started gathering in my eyes.

I was beginning to become one with the furniture in the house.

I'm starting to think this house is one of the biggest factors that influence my bad

health.

I knew my results were excellent, entering college would be easy.

He bowed his head, bringing our folded hands up to touch his forehead.

“Your prom is in a week. I'll make sure I have your beautiful dress ready before the

day.”

“Really?” I asked through my teary eyes.

“Yes, my love.” He said, freeing my hands to wipe my eyes. “You will go to that party

and I will be there with you.

“No, Dad.” I half chuckled and sniffled. “You're not coming to my prom with me, you

should go for a date with one of those beautiful ladies that tease you at your

workplace.

We both burst out laughing, the moody atmosphere had made way for a calmer one.

“I will go get you something to eat.” He said as he made a beeline to the kitchen.

“Too late, I have already prepared dinner,” I said through giggles.

“Urghh, Rose Clifford. You're one hell of a crackhead.”

“Right?”

“Isn't that what I hear Miss Beatrice tell you over the phone most times.”

He roared into laughter from the kitchen, it echoed through the walls of our

apartment.

“Rose, speaking of which. Miss Beatrice is coming tomorrow.”

“Yeah, right?”

I stood to go meet him in the kitchen; he brought something on the floor where he

knelt in front of me.

It was a white envelope that had “City Hospital” written boldly on it.

I opened it, I had to. All my wheel power to stop myself from handing it over to him

failed.

I opened it to read the content.

I was shocked at what I saw.

What he was keeping away from me since we got back from the hospital was written

on the paper.

The truth was in thick black ink

chronic lymphocytic leukemia.

Stage 3.