Three days

Three days to surgery.

Tyler laid on the couch in his living room, staring out the window, the television droning quietly beside him.  He waited.  Nothing. 

It'd been more than a week since Al had tried to kick down his door to visit.  And outside the incident at work the other day, Tyler hadn't even see Al in almost as long.  Tyler had spent the first few days rationing out his lack of Al visits.  He's busy.  Nessa's probably been arrested.  Sam might have had an attack.  But now, he just worried.  He's distancing himself.  Just in case...  If he stops seeing me now, he can fool himself into thinking that I'm already gone if the surgery goes bad.  He choked, a small whimper escaping him.

"If all of it isn't removed during the surgery, how long do I have?"

"We're very confident about the surgery..."

Tyler's chest constricted.  "Doctor, please.  If it all isn't removed, how long do I have?"

"Depending on how slow or fast it spreads, you could live for years, a lifetime even..."

"Or?"  Tyler had pressed.

"Or... it could be a matter of months.  If we don't get it all, we'll have you in here as soon as you heal for chemotherapy.  And they're making huge strides in treatment options everyday..."

Tyler sat still, then.  "Don't tell anyone.  Not my mother, not my stepfather.  Nobody."

"Well, of course, but your stepfather..."

"Will most likely figure it out on his own."  He pushed himself up.  "Thank you for seeing me."

"Mr. Dreylncourt.... If I may... You're young.  You're healthy.  Whether or not we remove it all, I do believe that you will live a long life."

Tyler forced a small smile to him.  "Well, you know what they say... only the good die young."

Tyler's heart was hammering on his sofa.  He shut his eyes, taking deep breaths.  Everything was arranged, so that his family wouldn't have to worry about anything if things took a turn. 

"And what would you like done with the ashes?"

"I don't care.  Don't let anyone keep them in their house.  That's creepy.  Tell them to dump me in the ocean, or spread me around Al's kitchen."

The man looked alarmed.  "Tyler... would... would you like me to write that?"

"No, of course not.  My mother would faint.  Just tell them to dump me someplace pretty."

What would it feel like to not be able to walk?  Tyler tried to push himself up without the use of his legs.  His arms shook a little.  He frowned at himself.  I haven't gone to a gym since I came back to Ireland.  Of course my upper body strength is shot.  Fuck.

He glanced at the television, and then outside at the dark night, then flopped back down.  He hit the light on the table beside him and curled onto his side.  Tears slipped down his cheeks in the dark.  I'm not gone yet... why does it feel like nobody else knows that?