[ WP ] A young cancer patient is sick and tired of all these damn celebrities popping in for surprise visits .

It started out small, the fear growing in Ellie. At only 14 she was diagnosed with neuroblastoma. Generally the five-year outlook was n't too bad, but she was n't so lucky. Eventually, she spent more time in the hospital than out. Her bed was her home, school, and, she knew, her deathbed. The fear that had started out so small grew, branching out and filling her with such dread that the end seemed too far. The helplessness would drive her insane before the cancer killed her. 
 
 Having some of her favorite people come by alleviated the pressure somewhat, but they merely represented her time ticking by. Her favorite actor, actress, singer, dancer, writer, the list goes on. She knew they were there because of the cancer, not her. Their stares were empty to her, filled with sympathy rather than empathy. She wanted to scream at them, spewing her rich, fevered emotions on their consciences. She was still a person; she still had hopes, dreams, emotions, and passion. All of that was cut short by this arbitrary monster that had made her body its host. Slowly, her fear turned to anger. 
 
 The last visitor held a unique hope. He was her favorite writer. Amongst the few things she could do in the hospital, she could read. There were an endless number of worlds she could escape to, temporarily forgetting her eminent demise. She saw parts of herself in these books, some essence that she related to wholly. Here, she thought, was someone who could save her from the pit which threatened to swallow her sanity. 
 
 But all she received was that hollow stare. It was heartbreaking. The one person she felt could understand her, realize how the situation affected her, treated her like everyone else. Like everyone else, he spoke to her mom. There were pleasantries exchanged and topics relating to the future avoided. Anything holding back her fermented fear and rage failed. She let out a soulful cry, alone in a world she would n't be able to take part in. Her words, broken by sobs and moans, cut deep. All her insecurities about being looked at as an object, something less than whole, spilled out of her. There was nothing that could make up for such a short life, she argued. She would die in the most solitary way, having no time to find someone who understood. 
 
 Her breathing was labored, gasps filling her lungs with barely enough air to get by. The steady beat of her heart faltered and she felt pain spreading across her face. *No. * It was her last thought as she looked around the room. Her mother was wide-eyed and scared. The hospital staff rushing in were focused on saving her. The author, her favorite author, looked sad, ashamed. Her body fell back against the pillows. She was n't saved. 
 

