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The Pink Disease

I was celebrating the 4th of July with Tuck, as was our tradition since childhood. We would modify fireworks and shoot them off into the air, illegally of course. We were best friends since the first day of the first grade.
After our adolescence, Tuck got a bit heavier. At least a hundred and fifty pounds heavier. Even still, he was my best man. He would always make fun of me and my slenderness. Sarcastically as usual.

This time, Tuck was the thin one, thinner than me. His normally olive skin was a pale sickly pink and his skin hung off of his bones loosely. His teeth were rotting and his hair was falling out. The pupils and iris of his eyes distorted and star-shaped. He sat in his wheelchair, inhaling concentrated oxygen and smiled weakly, watching me fire our modified piccolo pete's into the air.
I said nothing about it, but he saw the pity in my eyes.
He lost his arms, to the sickness so this time I had to light the fireworks.
I avoided looking into his misshapen pupils when he spoke.
"I'm dying, you know. This is the last time we'll get to celebrate the 4th."

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Side note: I celebrated with Tuck this year and he was in good health. But this dream sat in the back of my mind the entire time. I never really talked to him about it. He takes such things as a bad omen and I would rather not put him through that.

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