I never came out and actually TOLD that Leone kid that his baby sister was going to die. No, I never actually told him, but i think he knew that I could do no more for her. After a while he stopped coming save to ask me to fill perscriptions for increasingly stronger pain killers.



Looking at what I just worte, I called Leone a kid. He wasn't. He was 21 when I met him and should be damn near 30 now. Kid wasn't too far off the mark though, he was maybe 5'5" at the most and looked like he should be chasing a football around a JV football feild. Perpetual adolesence. Somethimes I envy the kid, sometimes I pity him.



Though it's been eight years since I've seen either of the Leones, I am just writing this sad monolouge now. I have alterior motives. As I enter my seventh decade, my body is betraying me. I'd contracted a brain tumor that has voraciously sucked the enjoyment from my life. I can no longer sleep. My head throbs nightly, and the few moments that I do get each night are tormented by dreams of her. I can only see her sickly smiling face, silently demanding that I use the same cure on myself that I used on her. but it's not her I'm sorry for. I ended her pain and I am not ashamed of my methods. Though, maybe I should be.