"I never will, Keaton. No matter how much I disagree with your choices, I'll always be beside you, even if I have to push you in the right direction."
She must sense my loneliness, filling the silence with gentle chatter I gratefully let wash over me.
But then the call I've been waiting for while simultaneously dreading beeps in, and my hands grow clammy. "Mom. I've got a call coming in that I've been waiting for. I love you."
"I love you too, Keaton," she says softly, like she understands the reason for the tightness in my voice.
Mom knows everything, so I wouldn't doubt it.
I brace myself, breath held tight, and answer. After confirming who I am, the results come in a flat, uncaring voice, as if karma hasn’t just come to collect on my butterfly’s behalf.
"Mr. Carr, we need you to come into the clinic so we can come up with your treatment plan and the doctor can go over questions you have."
The rest of the call blurs away. Staring at the date and time scrawled in my notebook, I know this isn’t just a nightmare I can wake from.
This is real life.
Mine and Charlie's.
And in this reality, I’m sinking beneath the weight of my own betrayal.
One stupid choice that I wish I'd never made.
One choice that I'd take back in a second if life handed out do-overs.
One reckless, ugly choice that left my butterfly’s heart in ruins and me marked by a disease I can’t ignore.
"How the hell did I ruin mine and Charlie's lives so completely?" I whisper to an empty room.
Fucking Chlamydia.
The Choices We Make
Keaton | The Past
Choices.
In the end, life is nothing but a string of choices, each one charting the course from where you begin to where you ultimately land.
From the instant your eyes blink open, you’re faced with a decision: rise to meet the day or retreat beneath the covers. By nightfall, your day is crowded with the echoes of every choice you made.
Good ones.
Bad ones.
Choices that defy logic and others you’d defend with your last breath.
Some leave you floating in happiness, tangled up in love.
Others carve scars into you or someone else, marks that never quite fade.
Reckless choices and a small orange bottle rattling with antibiotics.
That’s the chain around my neck for the next fourteen fucking days.
The pills clatter softly, rattling in their plastic prison as my hands tremble.
My mind goes back to the Pharmacy Tech’s masked expression. She stayed professional as she explained the medication instructions. I imagine it would be hard not to feel some pity for people filling prescriptions like mine. Even though doxycycline treats other things, the shame burning in my cheeks probably let her know why I needed it.
