So he had one month to live!
What about all his plans?
And everything he wanted to do?
He ran.
He hurried to meet those he loved, but hadn’t had the time to see.
Ex-girlfriends. Women he had hurt. His family...
He cried and asked for forgiveness.
He spent days writing letters.
His will.
He bought a Mercedes, knowing he would never finish to pay for it.
He bought all those clothes he found cool and never had the courage to wear. A purple blazer and tweed trousers. A hat like Michael Jackson! He loved it and didn’t care about the people looking at him on the street. Fuck them, he thought. I am the one who is dying!
He called his college friends and organised a party.
He smoked weed and tried cocaine.
Everyone went there drowning in nostalgia.
He was such a good man. They would miss him a lot.
They would spend every minute with him, to ease his pain.
Ease his last moments.
He felt important and self-pity became his best friend.
Why him? What had he done to die so early?
Not even 30 years he had gotten...and now it would be over. So many things he’d like to do still. Have a rock band! Parachuting! Set up a café like the one he had loved in Australia. Get his girlfriend back. Learn how to cook...this endless list of things was useless.
Now he had less than 10 days.
9
8
7
6
5
4
3
2
1
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It had been a mistake. Wrong exams. Wrong blood test. The Lab had totally screwed it. They paid him damage compensation. He managed to pay the Mercedes. His boss called, he went back to the office. He worked a lot, while his ex-girlfriend got married. The cooking course was on Saturdays and he prefered to sleep. The Parachuting was too far away. He had learned a café wouldn’t bring enough profit. Ordering Pizza was easier than learning how to cook. And the purple blazer? Buried deep inside his closet.
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