Was It All Worth It? (standard:romance, 2641 words)
Author: Red XIII	Added: Jun 08 2004	Views/Reads: 3387/2375	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A year of love and fame that slowly slipped away from her.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

be. 

It took a lot of encouragement, but he was worth it. Gradually the lad
I'd known a couple of years ago re-emerged. Very soon I realised I 
loved him very much. I still do, even though he's no longer with me in 
person. But I couldn't tell if he felt the same way about me. I found 
myself being as affectionate towards him as absolutely possible without 
stepping out of the bounds of friendship, whatever they are.  He 
reacted positively towards me. I didn't want to compromise our 
friendship by asking him for more. I'd sacrificed so much of my time, 
so much of my love for him. I often wondered how he felt about me, but 
I never asked him, for fear of what he might say. 

* 

“Hey Laura?” he said to me one night, looking straight into my eyes in
that way I loved so much. 

“Mmm?” 

“You know, you're really special to me. You make my life worth living.” 

I couldn't even try to describe how that made me feel at the time. I was
so afraid that he just meant it in a “friendly way,” when I was hoping 
for more. I just couldn't make myself say what I felt for him. The fear 
of rejection was too great to let those feelings out. 

* 

He would often say to me: 

“I wish I could sing.” 

He loved his music, and while he was listening to of his favourite songs
he'd sort of mouth the words, but never sing. He was adamant that he 
was incapable of it! The thought brings a smile to my face, even now. 

But when one night, at my friend's 16th birthday party one of his
favourite songs began to play on the karaoke machine, he proved he was 
wrong. 

“I couldn't resist. The music, the mood, everything was right.” 

That's what he said after he'd made me and half the room speechless with
his display of raw emotion, as if his soul screamed to be freed from 
his mortal body. I could feel his pain and frustration; I could barely 
fight back the tears. If only he could feel my love instead of his 
pain. His voice touched my heart so powerfully. 

After that night he seemed much happier. A few people asked him if he
belonged to a band, and eventually he was persuaded to join a band in a 
recording studio for a full afternoon, to find out what he liked and 
disliked, and to show off his voice again. They discovered he had an 
unusually wide vocal range; he just needed practice. 

They quickly gained respect for him as a person, and he began, with
their help, to write his songs. They started out very simple, but they 
got better and better. After his first gig he said to me: 

“It was scary. But perfect.” 

I remember the day he burst into my room shouting: 

“I've got a record deal!” 

I don't think he really knew what that meant, but he'd got it, and he
was happy! For the first time, he had a purpose in his life. Eventually 
of course, he began to get recognised. 

On his first major tour he didn't ask me if I wanted accompany him. Oh
no, he told me that I would be going with him! 

“Hey, you didn't think I was going to leave you behind, did you? No way,
you're the most important part of my show!” 

Who was I to argue? Again, I just wished I knew exactly how he meant it.
 Somewhere on that tour my question was answered. We became a couple. 
He was living his dream, and I was living it with him, as part of him. 
It became our dream. Those were the days of our lives. 

It's just such in incredible feeling to love, and be loved back. But
among the pure happiness there was also his past illness, fear that at 
any time he could be struck down by it. 

“Does it ever worry you?” I asked him one night. 

“In some ways, but if I were to die tomorrow, I'd die a truly happy man.
What more could anyone possibly ask?” 

I wondered if he meant it. As if reading my mind, he said: 

“The thing that does bother me is leaving you. It would be so unfair on
you if anything...” 

I stopped him. “You will never leave me,” I said. 

* 

Just before he announced his second tour, I noticed that he seemed less
energetic than he'd been before. He started going to bed earlier, and 
getting up later. 

“It could well be nothing, just some infection or something,” I said. As
if that would reassure him. 

I've tried so hard to forget the doctor's words. But they're still
there. “I'm very sorry to tell you that the worst has happened. Your 
white blood-cell count is sky high.” 

The realisation that I was at great risk of losing him hammered my heart
like a demolition ball into the side of an old building. I can't 
imagine how he must have felt. 

We just cried. Some people might say we handled it very badly, but I'd
say they are wrong. John and I had already learned that keeping 
feelings bottled up doesn't do any favours. 

“I've got to keep trying,” he said. “I beat it once, maybe I'll beat it
again.” So easy, so simple to say that. But we both knew that as far as 
leukaemia is concerned, it rarely works like that. 

The treatment was very harsh on him and it was soon evident that it
wasn't going to work this time. For a while he stopped writing, and 
stopped singing. I couldn't blame him. In the end, he did the bravest 
thing he could do. 

“I'm not continuing the treatment. I'm going on tour as planned,” he
said to me one day. 

I was so proud of him. He lived every day like it was his last. Every
song he sung was to a better standard than ever before, with more 
emotion than you'd have though could be put into a song. But his 
deterioration was still quite evident. He found he had to start making 
his shows shorter. He put more guitar solos in his songs to let him 
recharge. His stage manner became less lively. The tabloids pointed 
this out, but he neither confirmed nor denied anything. 

After his tour, he just did the odd live show, usually just as a guest,
whenever he felt like doing so. His song writing didn't slow down 
though. Obviously he eventually had to tell his band what was going on. 
I was by his side as he told them. 

“I owe it to you to be completely honest. You can't have failed to
notice...” he began, attempting a brave face to hide the extent of the 
toil it put on him. I took has hand. “I've got leukaemia, and no 
treatment can help me anymore. I just want to continue recording, as 
and when I can, and I'm hoping you'll be there to do it with me.” 

Even though they must surely have been expecting something along those
lines, they were still shocked. But they said they'd help him for as 
long he wanted them too. 

It was strange to see his songs changing. For a while they were full of
anger and fear, and gradually trailed into pure sadness. Sadness for 
the so many things that he would miss.  We travelled the world, saw 
sights, and we had fun despite knowing that any day could be his last. 
It was so painful to see him deteriorate, getting thinner and paler, 
and generally weaker. 

“Our love for each other is stronger than any disease,” he told me. 

When he started to get very ill he decided that he wanted to spend some
time at home before... before it was too late, I think he said. He 
asked me: 

“Was it all worth it?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“What you're going through now for me, and...” his voice tailed off. 

What could I say? Was he blaming himself for his illness? 

“Hey, I knew right from the start that you could get ill again, and I
wasn't put off, was I? John, babe, if I could do it all again tomorrow, 
I would.” 

He smiled. “So would I. I'm so lucky to have met you, girl!” he said. 

“I'm the one who's lucky. I'm the only one in the world to have you as
my own. There's probably millions of girls out there who fantasize 
about meeting you every day. I'm the only one who's lucky enough to be 
loved by the likes of you.” 

* 

The phone call still wreaks havoc in my mind. I get the full chill down
my spine, the mind-blowing batter to my brain that it delivered. We 
were staying at a hotel very close to where as children we used to 
live. He said he wanted a bit longer in bed, and said I should go and 
meet some of my old friends for the morning. I was just about to ring 
my friend's doorbell when my mobile rang. I just knew what it would be. 
I don't know how, but I did. 

“Hello?” 

“Laura? I'm a paramedic. John's taken a turn for the worse. You'd better
get back here.” 

There he was, lying on the bed, looking white as the bed sheets
themselves. He tried sitting up as I stumbled towards him. We held each 
other for a good few minutes without saying anything. His breathing was 
short and laboured, and he felt so cold to touch. It was obvious to me 
that this was it. There was no point in taking him to a hospital. He 
was dying. My heart turned itself inside out. It was too soon! He 
couldn't die now! I needed him. 

He grasped my hand and squeezed it. 

“Remember me for how I was,” he whispered. “And remember...always
remember how much I love you.” 

My flow of tears intensified. I knew I had to be brave. For him. But how
could I be? 

“I will,” I promised. I ran my fingers through his short hair. He
shivered. 

“It's getting... dark early.” 

I looked out of the window and straight into the late morning sun,
flooding the room with its life giving rays. 

“Yeah, it is,” I said. 

“Thank you...so much...” He coughed, his whole body shaking, “for all
you've... done for me. I've lived my dream...and it's...all thanks to 
you.” 

I tried to think of something to say in return. But before I could, his
hand loosened its grip on mine, and his whole body went limp in my 
arms. His noisy breathing ceased. 

“No. No, you can't...” I wished I could die with him. I felt absolutely
agony. Agony for him, and for myself. I knew I couldn't live without 
him. I let the tears pour. 

I gave him one last hug. I squeezed him tightly against my body, as if I
thought it might revive him. 

“I love you.” 

Slowly I lay him back down. 

* 

He left everything to me. He also left me instructions to finish any of
his work with his band, and released it as soon as possible. 

Part of one of the unfinished songs went like this: 

‘She was the only one who tried, 

Everyone else just gave up, 

From her I couldn't hide. 

She's the only reason I'm here, 

I'd be no body without her, 

I'll love her forever, no fear.' 

I added to it: 

‘He was the only person I cared about, 

Everyone else came second, 

His name I will forever shout. 

Alone he missed just one part: 

He just needed some loving care, 

He'll forever live in my heart.' 

* 


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