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Just when I felt like I couldn’t take it anymore, the flame receded, but
only to be replaced with a dark coolness. Eyes shut tight, I sighed in relief
and strained to think positive. I took comfort in the fact that I died before I
could be raped or tortured.

Part V
    My mind woke up slowly. I could feel . I felt each vibration of
the ship through my body. I felt each fold of the silky cloth beneath me. I
felt a cold breeze from the ship’s cooling system. I could hear . Boy,
could I hear. I heard the rumble of the engine, the bubble of quiet voices.
When I opened my eyes, I could see . The rough ceiling stood out in
individual detail. The walls were sharp, the details breathtaking. I no longer
needed my glasses.
    I sat up slowly. The shift in colors, the feel of rippling clothes,
and the sound of crinkling sheets flooded my brain. I couldn’t think straight.
Information overload. I went back down. Deep breaths , I told myself.
    I was in heaven. The last thing that I remembered was dying, so that
was the only answer to this madness. Why did I feel so great in heaven? Could
drugs from my life on Earth bleed over into death? If so, Marie must have
drugged me when I wasn’t paying attention, which caused the burning… and the
hallucinations. I never did drugs, so I wasn’t sure of their effects, but I was
willing to bet that drugs had caused this.
    Okay, so maybe my theory was a little far-fetched. If nothing else,
God wouldn’t allow drugs in heaven. So where was I and why did I feel
fever-free and amazing? I felt so strong and rejuvenated that it was almost as
if the chemo had never happened.
    After regaining my senses, I tried sitting up again. This time, I
wasn’t overwhelmed, so I took a few minutes to appreciate being alive. I appreciated
the splinters on the wood dresser, the smooth threads against my legs, the
strange dampness on my neck and arms. Did I cut myself? Was I bleeding? Slowly,
I reached to feel my back.
    Someone had placed a soft damp cape on me. My fingers felt it, and I felt myself feeling it. Maybe that was my back, and I had some strange disease.
The cape was made up of small petal-like objects. I reached around and rubbed
one between my fingers. It was soft and damp.
    I tried standing, but ended up jumping to my feet because I was so
light. Maybe it was the change in gravity? Or the drugs. The world spun, and I
clutched the bed for support. My stomach, for the first time since starting
chemotherapy, growled hungrily.
    Walking over to the full length mirror, I noticed that something was
different. I was different. I stood before my reflection, examining
myself.
    Before the chemo, I cared about what I looked like. Losing my hair and
feeling the thick threat of death hang over me caused a huge internal change.
    Before my hair loss, I had simply been happy looking like a normal
teenage girl. Sure, I was a few inches shorter than normal, and I had nice
facial features, but I didn’t look like this . This mustbe a
dream.
    Sighing, I noticed that my new shirt had been ripped and my bra was
torn. My once brown irises were now a light hazel, my lips were fuller,
eyebrows thicker, and I was slimmer. Which actually should have made me look
awkward, being belowaverage in height, and already slim, but it didn’t.
Because I had curves! Not just boobs, but curves. I giggled in delight.
Apparently, I grew a couple of cup sizes, and my hips had broadened out. I was beautiful .
Even I could see that through the layers of dirt on my skin.
    The most important change of all was on my head. Magically, from what
I could tell in the mirror, my hair had grown back. Instead of a deep black, it
had lightened a few shades to a mousy brown. It had grown a few inches and now
stuck out from my head like a fuzzy duckling. Even though it wasn’t as long as
it used to be, I was completely ecstatic.
    Wait! I don’t care about being beautiful, right? Why did I need beauty
to teach other women about being strong? I didn’t need