Aulie Desfleurs
Play:End of the World by Hermans Hermits
Adull ache fills my abdomen. Dragging my body out of bed, I raise my arms, hoping to stretch the ache out in the wink of early morning light. It doesn’t help. It’s rather rude that this pain insists on persisting six weeks after my surgery.
Maybe it shouldn’t—perhaps I have a disease,andI’m still a weakling.
The thought itches at me until I don’t want to be in the same room with it anymore. I need to prove that I can rise above all of this. That I’m capable of taking my life back. Yes, a run should do that.
Grabbing a pair of leggings and a long-sleeved workout shirt, I put both on and lace up my sneakers. Slowly, I move toward the front porch. Emy and Gus are probably still sleeping, and I don’t want to wake them up.
“You’re up early.” A figure illuminated in the halo of a blue light says as I pass through the living room.
“And you’re up…late?” I cock my head to the side. Sometimes, Gus gets into his coding and will clack away without any reference to time.
“Almost done,” he mumbles, sipping his energy drink. His beverage of choice irks me to no end. Gus literally takes negative care of his body, pumping it with chemicals, and ignores his sleeping schedule—and he’s fine. Yet when I misstep and eat or drink something “wrong,” it’s game over. I’m caught in a flare of pain for days. How is that fair? “Where are you going, Alouette?”
“Out for a run.”
“You think that’s a good idea? You’re barely walking.”
“I’m fine.” I wave off his concerns. I’m too itchy to get out of my head to care about the practicality of this idea. “I’m just going to the do the loop around the pond, no big deal.
“That’s two miles.”
“And I usually do five. See? Taking it easy.”
His lips press into a hard slash. “Bring your phone.”
“Yes, papa.” I roll my eyes, but Gus, consumed by his coding, misses my obvious annoyance with his helicopter brother’s antics.
“Don’t be freaked out, though. I shut it off yesterday afternoon because I needed a social media break, and that was the only way to stop myself from doom-scrolling.” While recovering from surgery and grappling with my diagnosis, I’ve learned some days are better than others mentally.
I’ve been mourning the loss of the people I love for so long that I’m painfully aware of how grief hangs on me and this time, that familiar feeling isn’t for someone lost, but a life not lived. Mine.
When I was younger, I had all these plans. I wanted to travel the country or abroad to England. I wanted to see Jane Austen’s house. See a performance at Shakespeare’s Globe. I wanted to make something of myself. I didn’t know what—I just wanted to be impressive—extraordinary, even.
But as time passed, I became stuck in a war over my body. One that I’m still not done fighting, and all the while, my friends who’ve been unencumbered have gone on to live big and glamorous lives. At least that’s what I see on social media, and I can’t help but compare that my—albeit cozy—existence is significantly stilted compared to theirs.
I need to get over it. I need to overcome the fact that I’ll never be as impressive as someone like Veronica Burke. And I need to be okay with who I am now. No more mourning who I could have been if I didn’t have this disease.
Brisk air kisses my cheeks when I exit the house. Dragging the fresh air through my lungs, I focus on putting one foot in front of the other and shaking the cobwebs off my muscles, which have grown stiff and weak over the last few months. “Just keep running,” I tell myself as cramps settle on the tops of my thighs. “You’re not in pain. You’re fine.”
My feet carry me around a corner and down a slope. Dead leaves crunch under my feet. Barren branches sway over head as the grey light of dawn slowly cracks the sky open.
The dull ache doesn’t recede as I hoped, and I try to focus on the rhythm of my feet on the path and my breathing.
Left. Right.
Inhale. Exhale.
Lightning shoots from the crook of my thigh down the back of my leg. Gasping on an inhale, I focus on getting my leg to land safely on the ground. It doesn’t comply, and I collapse.
Catching myself with my palms, gravel rips up my hands.
With a groan, I roll over on my back, tracing the stars still faintly glimmering in the sky. A loon wails hauntingly in the pond as I lie there, palms stinging.
I give up.
