Thread:Urkelbot666/@comment-26268104-20150826235822/@comment-26268104-20150912232710

So, this is what I have of the story so far. How is it, and how can I improve what I have so far?

              My name is Denis Barnes. My intentions were good, but how I tried to do them was a disaster. Because of that, I’m thought of by everyone as the new Jeffery Dahmer. Maybe it’s good if I’m locked up in prison, rather than being in the world to hear what everyone has to say about me. About you, you don’t have to listen to my story, nor do you have to care about it, but if you listen to me, thank you.

Several years ago, when my mom was pregnant with my brother, my dad, Scott Barnes’ lung cells began to multiply, making my dad begin to suffer from lung cancer. But since he smoked, both him and mom brushed off the signs as coughing from the smoke. By the time he was diagnosed with cancer, it caused dad to be unable to get around due to shortness of breath. Dad retired from his job, leading my family to have to move to a farm. By that point, Scott’s illness was so severe he had to lie in a hospital bed at all times.

3 years later, it was the last year before I got my college degree in medicine, but in the process, I had to change to a school that was closer to the farm. One day, in March, my mom got a call from the hospital. I was in my room during that time, but I could hear mom crying during the conversation. After she hang up, I walked down slowly, preparing for bad news.

“What was that phone call about,” I asked.

Mom took a deep breath then said “Your dad’s lungs have multiple tumors on them.” She paused for a second, took another, even deeper breath and said “He won’t live long past another 6 months.” I was speechless. I thought of how dad always helped me stay positive during my younger years. He was funny and never got angry, except when I or my brother got into trouble.

“Oh, god,” I mumbled to myself, as a large tear rolled down my cheek.

“We’re going to see him in the hospital. Go wake Jonas up,” my mom said.

As my throat was too closed up to say a word, I dragged myself upstairs to wake up my brother. He was a tall, thin boy, who for some reason was, unlike the rest of my family, born black. Anyway, I continued up the stairs to his room and knocked on the door.

“Wake up,” I said.

“What,” said Jonas, sounding half-asleep.

“We are going to see dad.” I was too upset to add on that he was dying.