I mean no disrespect to anyone. This is just a story. Plainly and simply a story.
Credits to everyone who helped on the sculpture and story of Cancer-man and his 'muse'.
Cancer-man was not always Cancer-man.
He hadn't always had cancerous lumps all over his body.
He hadn't always been cracked up and weak.
He hadn't always been morose and so deathly brown and still.
He hadn't always been sitting in the most uncomfortable position possible.
To him uncomfortable was now comfortable.
John Doe a.k.a. Not-Atul a.k.a. Cancer-man, had been a basketball player, with big-ass muscles. He was most proud of his jersey, which had to be renamed after his unfortunate misfortune.
He was the best player on his college team. He could shoot hoops, dunk, slam dunk, dribble (running around the court like crazy with a ball) and of course, take rebounds.
He loved the game with all his heart.
He was iron stuck to a magnet.
But he loved the chicks that came with the stardom even more.
So it was a big blow when he found out he had cancerous lumps all over his body. He tried chemotherapy, radiation, ayurveda, all sorts of surgeries and treatments.
And while it may have reduced during treatment, the cancer came back immediately after.
Slowly it would grow, eating him, regenerating eternally, till he could bear it no more.
Till he could no longer ignore the name that his jersey now had printed on.
He quit basketball.
In a few months, he quit college, for although the jersey was locked in his cupboard, the memories in his head, and everyone else's, were not.
A few weeks later he quit life. The jersey was still in his cupboard. He couldn't bring himself to burn it or throw it or flush it down the toilet, because of his pride, his pride and the fact that he didn't want a clogged drain.
He decided to retry life when he later got an epiphany and wore the jersey for the rest of his cancerous life. He didn't have to see his nickname, the visual proof, anymore. All the mirrors in the house were removed and he made sure never to turn around near one.
But as he got weaker he got more uncomfortable and more lumpy. He couldn't sit anyway he wanted.
When his friends came to visit, they'd find him in the most oddest of positions. They knew it was uncomfortable only because they'd tried to sit that way at their homes.
His expression became constant - a morose, distant look. His friends at first thought he was pouting, but they knew two seconds later that he wasn't. Soon even the familiar faces he saw stopped coming into his room. Now he was alone.
Until the day he met her.
Her, whose story he (nor I, sadly) does not know...
Credits to everyone who helped on the sculpture and story of Cancer-man and his 'muse'.
Cancer-man was not always Cancer-man.
He hadn't always had cancerous lumps all over his body.
He hadn't always been cracked up and weak.
He hadn't always been morose and so deathly brown and still.
He hadn't always been sitting in the most uncomfortable position possible.
To him uncomfortable was now comfortable.
John Doe a.k.a. Not-Atul a.k.a. Cancer-man, had been a basketball player, with big-ass muscles. He was most proud of his jersey, which had to be renamed after his unfortunate misfortune.
He was the best player on his college team. He could shoot hoops, dunk, slam dunk, dribble (running around the court like crazy with a ball) and of course, take rebounds.
He loved the game with all his heart.
He was iron stuck to a magnet.
But he loved the chicks that came with the stardom even more.
So it was a big blow when he found out he had cancerous lumps all over his body. He tried chemotherapy, radiation, ayurveda, all sorts of surgeries and treatments.
And while it may have reduced during treatment, the cancer came back immediately after.
Slowly it would grow, eating him, regenerating eternally, till he could bear it no more.
Till he could no longer ignore the name that his jersey now had printed on.
In a few months, he quit college, for although the jersey was locked in his cupboard, the memories in his head, and everyone else's, were not.
A few weeks later he quit life. The jersey was still in his cupboard. He couldn't bring himself to burn it or throw it or flush it down the toilet, because of his pride, his pride and the fact that he didn't want a clogged drain.
He decided to retry life when he later got an epiphany and wore the jersey for the rest of his cancerous life. He didn't have to see his nickname, the visual proof, anymore. All the mirrors in the house were removed and he made sure never to turn around near one.
But as he got weaker he got more uncomfortable and more lumpy. He couldn't sit anyway he wanted.
When his friends came to visit, they'd find him in the most oddest of positions. They knew it was uncomfortable only because they'd tried to sit that way at their homes.
His expression became constant - a morose, distant look. His friends at first thought he was pouting, but they knew two seconds later that he wasn't. Soon even the familiar faces he saw stopped coming into his room. Now he was alone.
Until the day he met her.
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