How late is it? How long have we been sitting here? I look at my watch โ three thirty and the day is almost ending. Itโs October. All those kids recently returned to classrooms with new bags and pencil cases will be looking forward to half term already. How quickly it goes. Halloween soon, then firework night. Christmas. Spring. Easter. Then thereโs my birthday in May. Iโll be seventeen. How long can I stave it off? I donโt know. All I know is that I have two choices โ stay wrapped in blankets and get on with dying, or get the list back together and get on with living.
Jenny DownhamAnd in bed, deep inside the building, are all the headaches that won't go away. The failed kidneys, the rashes, the ragged-edged moles, the lumps on the breast, the coughs that have turned nasty. In the Marie Curie Ward on the fourth floor are the kids with cancer. Their bodies secretly and slowly being consumed. And then there's the mortuary, where the dead lie in refrigerated drawers with name tags on their feet.
Jenny DownhamThere's a terrible stillness. I notice a small tear in the wallpaper above her shoulder. I notice finger marks grimed on the light switch. Somewhere down in the house, a door opens and shuts. As Zoey turns to face me, I realize that life is made up of a series of moments, each one a journey to the end.
Jenny Downham