“Zachary! Hit the damn ball!!” Coach yelled. We were playing baseball and I just couldn't hit the ball. Normally I'm good at it but that day I couldn't do it. It wasn't nerves or anything like that. It was the fact that I was in a lot of pain. My ribs and stomach were killing me. I couldn't breathe on some parts of the day but I just thought it was one of my many illnesses. I was a very sickly child and I just figured it was to do with that so I continued trying to hit the ball but soon I was out. I watched the rest of the game in pain. My team lost and they blamed me.
“God, Zachary... we could have won...”
“This is all your fault, Loser..” They said as they shoved me into the lockers but I was in too much pain to even noticed. I gasped and grabbed my chest in pain before coughing and falling onto my knees. They weren't sure what to do so they got the Coach.
“Stop been so dramatic, Baker,” He said. He thought I was acting til I coughed up blood. Not just a small amount either. I ended up fainting and been taken to ER. My parents were worried and they were right to be because that was the day I found out I was dying. The doctors took tests and when they came back, they pulled my parents outside and told them. My mom burst into tears so I knew it was something bad then my dad came in and sat down, taking my hand in his.
“Son, the doctors... they... Zachary... you don't have long to live...” He said. I remember it perfectly. He looked heartbroken. I just licked my lips.
“How long, Dad?” I asked. I was calm as anything. I wasn't surprised.
“Two years, son,” He whispered. “You have two years to live,”