//------------------------------// // Dead! // Story: The Nightmare Procession // by Dashie04 //------------------------------// You’ve heard the story’s start But there still is the rest What exactly happened to make it a mess? You should know the next part The pain in my head And the day that I learned I was finally dead. That pain never went away. I tried to sleep, but the incessant pounding made it hard to. When my parents finally got home that night, I stumbled out to greet them. They arrived together, as one would expect. They tended to fly home together after work in the mines. I couldn’t judge them for it, you wouldn’t want to get robbed for a whole two gold in the streets. Why did Griffonstone mine? Well, apparently to trade for money to improve the city, but given the state of Griffonstone, I highly doubted that, or at least had the assumption it was going somewhere else. My parents were shocked to see me stumbling to meet them at the door. I presume I looked like a puppy with a broken leg, wincing as I walked. Whatever it was, they took notice, and they asked questions. “Geode, what are you doing up?” my mother asked. I collapsed onto the floor, the dirty, tile floor, and groaned in response. My parents looked at me inquisitively. I groaned again. “You know, you can tell us what’s going on,”— also my mother. You might want to know a little bit about my parents, well, they were both miners. The tended to work late and got very little time off. They were loving parents, as loving as it gets, basically. While they weren’t there much, the times they were, they spent a lot of time with me and gave me plenty of memories to assure that I wasn’t going to grow up without them. That’s part of the reason I hated Griffonstone’s entire work schedule, because I loved my parents, too. Aside from the absolutely splendid quality of living, I wanted my parents to be with me more often. However, they never were. It wasn’t their fault, but it’s just how the cliff crumbles. Back to me being in so much pain I couldn’t effectively stand up right. You aren’t here for the sob story, you’re here for the entertainment, the rebellion, and what exactly happened next. It’d be on-par with my life up to that point. So, I was collapsed on the floor like I had the spine of that one griffon who actually liked ponies. My parents were still looking at me weirdly. “Head... hurts,” I finally muttered. “Hurts like hell.” I seem to recall my parents taking worried glances at each other, before my dad rushed to prop me up. “How bad does it hurt?” he practically demanded with a hint of a manic tone. “Boy,” I choked out, “I sure think it’s a 1—.” I was barely hanging on to consciousness, my skull that wouldn’t shut up was being a more efficient stimulant than coffee. I felt like I was about to slip away, and who knew if I’d wake up again. My dad gave a sigh of relief. “So, you’re fine then.” I gave him the strongest glare I could muster. You think my parents would’ve understood my sarcasm. My mother either noticed the glare or got the sarcasm. It wasn’t long at all before she declared, “Grey, we should probably take him to the hospital.” I gave a weak nod and slumped down. “Can you fly?” my mother inquired. I murmured, “I can, but I don’t want to.” So, my mother and father did an elaborate thing that basically told anygriffon who witnessed it that my parents were carrying me somewhere because I was too weak to do it myself. They were The Doctors, I was The Patient. Nogriffon needed to know anything more. As for the ride? It couldn’t believe that it was that comfortable. By which I mean comfortable at all. Let’s say that it was preferable to flying in my state, but not much else. I willed myself to stay awake, because I was worried that if I fell asleep, there was a very real chance I wasn’t waking up again. At some point, we reached the hospital, and I’d already wasted a half of a night. My parents however, lugged me into the hospital (also better than normal living conditions). They sort of dropped me like a sack of meat on a side bench and went to tell the front desk griffon that something was wrong with me. The environment was nothing spectacular, it was a building made of stone, most sick griffons went here to get rudimentary treatment. The inside is painted white, and the floors are at least clean. It was slightly preferable to an actual house. Before I knew it, I was being carried into some side room and laid down on a little chair covered in felt. From what I managed to gather about that day, they put me to sleep, and ran a few tests. All I knew is that when I woke up, I heard beeping. There was beeping alright (a heart rate monitor, how they afforded it, I don’t know), and the room was likewise painted white. The chair I was in was a mite uncomfortable, it was really just felt on steel. There was also a griffon in a lab coat standing right in front of me. He carried a clipboard in one of his wings, then he looked down at me and then down at the clipboard, before he scribbled some notes. He did this for five minutes, and I got irritated. “What do you want?” I snapped. I noticed that my head wasn’t hurting as much. “Have you got the news today?” he asked. “Nope,” I stated cooly. “Oh boy,” the doctor remarked. “So? What’s the news?” I pressed. “Well, I assume you haven’t gotten the news. You’re basically dead. Your diagnosis is brain cancer and we expect you to have two more weeks to live. Don’t worry, you won’t die tomorrow, but don’t expect to survive until school starts again.” That was the day I realized I needed to do something with my life. What was left of it.