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"Something Like Regret"

I've seen my dreams mirrored in the darkness of my death
Like a fly lusting for the final, perfect spiderweb
I go out
Laughing, "Death's an easy lie."
~from Darkness, Dreams And Death

[...]some secret waters from which all Art flows
Runs through her and me
And tells me past Reason's rigid laws
That this thing must be.
So like my Elizabethan brother
Feverishly, I write these lines
Knowing when her curtains fall
When the costumes rot
When last she speaks her lines
These lines remain
That when we two are lost
Beneath grass and dew
These words carry what we were
And make us new.
~from A Poet's Gift
Songs to a Handsome Woman by Rita Mae Brown

It was spring in Lawndale, mid-May and fair as a new pearl. Sun shone down on manicured lawns, winked cheerfully at pedestrians and smiled benevolently down on the world. Those fortunate enough to be out and about on this day relished the feel of warmth while Daria Morgendorffer watched from her fourth floor window, pallid face untouched by either sun or emotion. Auburn hair, once thick and full from care and good health, fell in thin, lank drifts to mid-back. It had lost its light wave, now straight and lifeless as wet yarn. Unlike most teenagers, her skin was dry and papery thin; more like an old woman's than a fifteen year old girl's. Dark smudges interrupted the pallor under her eyes, eyes which were dark and endless green and old before their time. Heavy round-frame glasses slipped down a small, pert nose and with a tired sigh, Daria pushed them back and dropped the drape back across the window.

Exhausted from even such a small exertion, Daria stumbled over to the small table in the corner of her room and dropped into a chair. She spent a few seconds catching her breath, then poured a glass of water from a pitcher at the center of the table and sipped at it, eyes far away over the lip of the glass. When the water was gone, the glass was set aside and she reached for a spiral-bound notebook and capped fountain pen. Her initials were engraved in the enameled shaft, the same dark green as her eyes. Just as she flipped the book open and settled in to write, there was a knock at the door. A nurse entered a moment later, handed Daria a small paper cup containing a couple of pills and waited a moment for her to swallow them.

"That's your lot until bedtime, honey," the nurse said, then sighed at Daria's pained expression. "I'm sorry, but you've lost too much weight; the doctor cut you back to six pills a day."

Daria dropped the empty cup into the trash can at the side of her chair, expression once more an even blank.

"It doesn't make a difference either way, does it?" She turned her ancient eyes on the nurse, and the woman suddenly seemed older. "If I take eight Percocets a day, or ten, or twenty—it all comes to the same thing. Doesn't it, Nurse Chase?"

Dorothy Chase sighed again; ever since this girl had been transferred to the fourth floor two weeks ago, it felt as though Dora had aged ten years. It was always hard when the residents were so young, but it was much worse with Daria; she was an old soul in a body that would never reach the age that could accommodate such a brilliant mind. Dora pitied this poor child, so she did for her something she had done only for her most hopeless patients until now.

"Tell you what, Daria. You have a group therapy session in a few minutes; if you go quietly and promise to behave, I may be inclined to 'drop' a pill or two by your dresser tonight." Dora fixed the teen with a stern but bright blue eye. "Do we have a deal?"

Daria scrutinized the nurse closely for several long seconds, then astonished the woman by offering her hand for a shake with a tiny smile.

"I believe we have an accord."

The women shook, and a moment later Dora pushed a wheelchair into the room.

"Okay, sunshine; ass in chair." She carefully helped Daria into the chair, buckled her in and unlocked the wheels. The door was closed behind them by a friendly orderly, and it was off to the 6th floor: Psychiatric Ward.

The women passed through a set of doors, and as they rolled toward the elevators, Daria's eyes found the sign that had nearly broken her sanity almost two weeks before.

Cedars of Lawndale Hospice
—Youth Wing

Daria closed her eyes and turned away from the cheery yellow death sentence, ignored the pity in the faces of the nurses and doctors, the apathy in the faces of visitors and priests. She glued her hard gaze to the chromed elevator doors and did not so much as blink until those doors were closed behind her.

0.0.0

The psychiatrist was droning on and on about the freedom of acceptance or some other such nonsense, and Daria was bored. She was starting to feel her painkillers by now and could not seem to keep her attention on the man in the white coat. In a last-ditch effort to remain conscious, she pulled a Rubik s cube from the pocket of her green silk dressing gown (not a robe— her sister, Quinn, had been quite adamant about that) and started turning it over in her hands.

"Hey, cool." A husky voice to her left brought Daria suddenly out of her semi-trance and she looked around into a pair of deep blue eyes. A wider view showed a heart-shaped face, angular black slashes of eyebrows over those sparkling globes and a bright red head scarf over what was obviously a bare scalp. Her lips were cracked and dry, but that was hardly a unique condition here. A sketchbook and pencil sat in her lap. She was very thin, wasted by the chemo that had failed to save her life. There was still some definition to her muscles, mostly in what could be seen of her legs; she wore a long hospital robe, shapeless and almost without color, that reached past her knees. Daria saw all of this and stored it away in less than a second, just long enough to get a brief sketch of the girl's surface personality. "Could I try?"

Daria placed the partially-solved cube into the girl's outstretched hands, which immediately went to work.

"I got one of these for my sixth birthday, from my cheap-ass grandmother," the girl murmured as she worked, twisting this way and that without even the slightest pause. After about two minutes, she returned the cube, a smile stretching her parched mouth. "Ta-da!"

The bespectacled girl stared down at the puzzle in wonder. A perfect square of white sat in the center of a red border on the top of the cube. She turned it in her hands to see the pattern repeated on every side, and found herself smiling.

"Where did you learn to do this?"

The girl shrugged. "I got detention a lot. Had to do something to pass the time. Don't thank me; thank Granma." She offered her hand and Daria took it.

"I'm Jane."

"Daria."

They were interrupted by the doctor, who decided that any conversation important enough to ignore his speech for should be shared with the group. Jane saved Daria a cutting remark by taking the question herself.

"We were just talking about how much it sucks that we're dying, but still have to deal with PMS." Dr. Weiss blanched at the bluntness of Jane's pronouncement, then flushed as many other girls in the group began nodding or muttering their agreement. "I mean, it's bad enough we'll never graduate high school or have kids; we're depressed enough without adding cramps and mood swings."

Much to Dr. Weiss's dismay and discomfort, the discussion turned largely to menstruation among the girls in the group; the remainder consisted of the general suckitude of their situation and all of the things they had hoped to accomplish before they died. Preoccupied as he was, Weiss failed to notice that the group was the most animated they had ever been. The almost palpable aura of despair had evaporated with Jane's comment, and airing their grievances brought a sense of peace to the teens that nothing else could have.

The remainder of the hour passed quickly, and soon Daria and Jane were being wheeled back to their rooms. Jane requested that they dine together, and so were both taken to Jane's room; Daria was surprised to see that it was just next door.

The girls were admonished to stay in their chairs and were pushed up to Jane's small table. The room was almost identical to Daria's; deluxe twin-size hospital bed, large entertainment center stocked with big-screen T.V., VCR and radio, pull-out couch for any visitors inclined to spend the night, a small table and chairs for those strong enough to take their meals out of bed. The usual assortment of generic paintings peppered the lavender-painted walls, but Jane had made a vast improvement to her space: every vertical surface in the room was covered in artwork. Paintings, sketches, caricatures, portraits, landscapes, still lives, even comic panels lined the walls. The entertainment center was papered over, even the large T.V. covered. Daria stared around herself in wonderment and Jane watched her, smiling.

"I wanted to be an artist," Jane whispered; Daria turned to face her, but Jane's eyes were on her work, now. "Ever since I was little, I knew what I wanted to do. It didn't matter how; sculpture, photography, charcoal, water colors, oils... whatever it was, I would use it to make my mark on the world. Everyone would know the name Jane Lane, and it would be synonymous with greatness."

Jane's eyes were bright with tears, but her smile was strong as she riveted her gaze to one particular painting. It was a water color of a boy and little girl sitting side by side. They had the same black hair, the girl's an uneven bowl cut, the boy's an unkempt fall that just reached his shoulders. They seemed to be about six and ten years old respectively, sharing a threadbare armchair with their arms around each other. Each wore a huge cheese-eating grin, so alike in expression they could only be brother and sister.

"And then I got sick. We couldn't go to the doctor; couldn't afford it with mom and dad gone, wherever the hell they are, and we didn't have insurance. So we just let it slide, and waited for it to get better on its own. Only it didn't. It just got worse, and no matter how bad it got, I never stopped drawing." Her eyes burned bright and hot, her expression fierce, hands clenched on the arms of her wheelchair. "I never gave up my art—and I never will. I'll die with a paintbrush in my hand, goddammit, and to hell with anyone who says different."

A Candy Striper came with their lunches. She was a teenage girl with brown hair in pigtails; she kept her eyes down the entire time she was there. The girls watched her go.

"I'll make my mark," Jane whispered, eyes far away. "While I'm still here. I'll make sure to leave something for the world to remember me by. I won't be forgotten."

She was not sure when it happened, but sometime during Jane's monologue Daria had taken the girl's hand. She squeezed it now as Jane wept, sat beside her in that room wallpapered in memories like a shrine to the life she was leaving behind.

The girls only picked at their meals, and the plates were mostly full when the Candy Striper came to take them away. Soon they were worn out, both physically and emotionally, and Nurse Chase came by to take Daria back to her room. Before she was wheeled away, Daria touched Jane's hand so that the maudlin girl looked up. Daria gave her a rare smile, eyes sparkling for the first time in a very long while.

"You are an artist," Daria whispered as she was slowly wheeled backward. "Only a true artist could have made me feel whole again after being broken for so long; you've made your mark, Jane."

The tips of Daria's fingers slipped away from Jane's hand, and a few seconds later the girl was gone. Jane stared after her, eyes shining with fresh tears, and something more. For the first time since before everything started going wrong, Jane felt truly at peace. She raised the hand Daria had been holding to her cheek and pressed it to her skin. It was warm, so very warm.

Another nurse helped Jane into bed, and though all but spent, Jane laid down an new sketch in her book. She fell asleep with a blissful smile on her lips and slept well for the first time in what felt like forever.

.0.0.0.