It’s been a while since our characters have last seen each other. Send me “How’ve you been?” and I’ll generate a number to see what has happened to my character in the time they were apart.
5. Diagnosed with a terminal illness
Probably the most obvious of Dean’s physical alterations was the weight loss. He wasn’t scrawny, but was just about - and his hair was shorter, an implication that he’d had to shave it, or that it had fallen out, but was steadily on its way to reaching his original - and preferred - length.
But he doubted he’d last that long. The doctors had long since decided he wasn’t fit for chemo, and had decided he’d be left to wait it out. By it, he knew they meant death as opposed to recovery, but honestly, he couldn’t bring himself to care anymore. He just wished his hospital bed would come readily equipped with a gun. Or maybe that, despite it being a decision no capable doctor would ever make, they send him home. Then, he’d be able to take care of himself. There’d be no waiting.
He’d just stumbled out of another coughing fit when she entered the room, and if the cancer hadn’t already stolen his breath away, she’d snatch it up.
Jo Harvelle, her excellency - looking just as beautiful as he remembered her. With the light pouring in from the window, she looked like an angel - but Dean had always doubted the odds of his acceptance into Heaven, and so he dismissed the hope that swelled in his chest, that maybe he’d died without realizing.
Her hair wasn’t misshapen as his was, though he noted it seemed shorter. She wasn’t deathly pale like him - she lacked the sunken eyes and the hollow cheeks, and for that, Dean was grateful. He’d suffer another lifetime’s worth of lung cancer if it meant she wouldn’t have to - which hopefully, she wouldn’t.
He wanted to leap out of bed and envelop her in his arms, but he knew he’d long since lost the ability. So his head just rose a bit from his pillow, and his eyes followed her every step.
Her question caught him off-guard only for the fact that he’d always thought Jo was exceptionally intelligent, and her greeting of ‘how’ve you been’ simply wasn’t. It was soft spoken and thoughtful, but what was he to say?
That was a lie, but he doubted she couldn’t tell. Jo was a smart girl.
”What’re you doin’ here — doll face?”
His sentences were slow and labored. He couldn’t just gather up the breath for a set of sentences - it was hard enough managing a couple of words.
