The Fat House

          14 year old Tyler sat in the back seat of the car, his nose pressed against the glass window, his drained eyes glancing at the passing cars. He had always disliked car journeys, but when dislike meets overwhelming pulses of fear and anxiety, ones mood tends to dampen. The, “Fat House,” drew nearer. The passing countryside did nothing to help his pale expression, and the classical music spurting out from the radio only further depressed him. Tyler’s face was void of emotion, his insipid expression was one that could be easily associated with someone that is very obviously ill, with an illness that could no longer be concealed; and it didn’t help that his face was offset by his matted black hair, which had just recently begun to fall out.
         
          His once emerald green eyes were now dull and had lost most of their life, they gave the impression of  a once great and colorful painting which now hung on some old and forgotten wall gathering dust and slowly fading away. He was so thin now, his stick like arms hung limply from his puny shoulders. Even in his depression Tyler could not sit still, his fragile legs twitched constantly because the strain of walking from his house to the car was too much for his body to handle. The, “Fat House,” drew nearer.

        He was tired, so tired; his eyelids heavy. Slowly but very surely, Tyler was dying. His parents had told him and his doctor had confirmed it. Tyler wasn’t scared of death, he had thought about it a lot, he wondered if it could be any worse than life; of course not. Tyler could see the sun low in the sky, each time he forced his eyelids back open it was a shade darker and he wondered if they were close but he couldn’t be bothered to ask, nor did he feel like tilting his head to see what time was. I’ll just stay here, he thought to himself still staring out the window. It’s fine here. I like it here.

          The car stopped and Tyler’s head banged against the window. The music stopped and Tyler noticed that it had started to rain.

- Tyler, what are you having from the shop? His mother asked leaning over into the back.

- I don’t want anything, he said, I’m not hungry.

- Tyler please eat something, she wiped a stray tear with her sleeve.

          Tyler’s father didn’t turn round, he couldn’t bear to look at what his son had become, he felt responsible, simply because he was his father, and there was nothing he could do. Tyler looked his mother in the eyes and decided against standing his ground, he loved her, and he couldn’t stand seeing her cry.

- I’ll have a cheese sandwich; he said to keep her from crying. His mother sniffled and turned round and his dad got out the car. There was silence for a minute or two.

- Tyler? She said

- Yeah?

- You know… you know that we are doing this for your own good; she said holding back her tears.

- You know that right?

          Tyler grunted in correspondence. He knew she was telling the truth but it didn’t make him feel any better about going. He had accepted death now; he would rather just wait for it than try to avoid it. There was silence again until his dad returned soaking wet and handed him the sandwich, it was a big one, it made him feel sick.