#manic open

Walking the empty street, Franklin can't help but let his mind wander. That's the bad thing about being out and about on his own; it gives him time to think, to think about things he doesn't like thinking about, things he'd rather forget.

Turning the corner, the male stops walking, rummaging through his pockets and pulling out a cigarette along with a lighter. He brings the cigarette to his lips, and lights it, taking a long drag before blowing out a cloud of smoke.

His head was swimming and his hands were trembling. He took a moment, leaning into his crutches as he stood outside the hospital building. It was difficult to catch his breath after challenging those 4 flights of stairs. It was rather a childish choice, to be quite honest. An act of rebellion against his darn lungs. As was the smoking. He felt around in his red blazer for a few moments before retrieving a packet of cigarettes. It brought a smirk to his lips, and a frown to others. To see a man so riddled with cancer inhaling nicotine was a naive act of rebellion. Theodore taught himself not to care. 

Cigarette between his teeth, Theodore continued his struggle on crutches. He planned to spend the afternoon is town. He was a proud street performer. He placed down no hat for money, just an amp and a microphone stand. If he had it his own way, he'd be performing for large crowds, concert venues. Living the rockstar life. But he wasn't given that opportunity to take. 

The doctors were used to chuckling at him as he entered the examination room with his guitar case and amp. They thought him daft to attempt such feats at such a critical stage in treatment. Of course, Theodore still didn't care.