You cautiously enter the hospital room, trying not to wake up your friend, who was curled up and seemed to be asleep in a hospital bed.

"Leave." Scaramouche spoke softly.

"I already told you that visiting me is a waste of time. I can't be cured, you idiot." Now, Scaramouche spoke a little louder and harsher.

It had been a week since Scaramouche had been diagnosed with stage three brain cancer. He was hiding himself from you, with his blanket. He had recently started to lose hair.