I typed up my newest blog; heart feeling bloated with happiness.
For one perfect moment, I existed not as a patient or a medical curiosity, but simply as a girl feeling sunshine on her face. Sure, I still had to wear a suit, still had that stupid barrier between me and the world. But I was outside! And the sunlight was warmer than I ever knew it could be. Do you know how long I’ve been wanting to walk in the Brightfield gardens? I even picked petals off a flower. Though, I couldn’t feel the texture and couldn’t smell its scent, I held nature in my grasp. And I did something Ihadn’t done since I was a child. I asked the flower the most important question in the world. What happens next?
Petal one. I’m going to live!
Petal two. I’m going to die.
I’m going to live! I’m going to die.
Purple petals, one by one, falling to the grass.
Guess what the last petal was?
I paused, frowning. I usually tried not to include too much darkness. But this time I didn’t redact the truth. I let it spill out with abandon.
The last petal was I’m going to die. I don’t accept that. I’ve spent so much time waiting to die. Waiting to live feels alien. But it’s a beautiful thing, even if it’s fragile. I wanted to stay outside all day… but the small oxygen tank ran low. My lungs tightened, and I couldn’t get a full breath. Back inside, I had to use supplemental oxygen for hours to regulate.It was worth it though. So very worth it. I just want to be normal. I want to have my days not revolve around sickness.
I closed the laptop without publishing the post. For some reason, it made me feel too vulnerable. Maybe I worried if I sent the words out into the world, they’d be free but somehow I’d stay caged.
The first door of my room’s double entrance whooshed, sanitizing spray fogged down, and then the second door slid open. Doctor Emerson entered, wearing a simple surgical mask instead of the heavy protective gear. He waggled his eyebrows and pointed at the mask, as if I couldn’t see it for myself.
"Look at you," I said with a smile. "So casual. Practically naked."
"Progress, Lucy. Real progress." Doctor Emerson pulled up the rolling stool beside my bed. "Your immune system is strengthening. The gene therapy is working better than we could have hoped. Though, I must admit," he leaned closer to me conspiratorially, “I dislike Doctor Mercer immensely and only put up with him for your sake.”
“Taking one for the team,” I nodded, “You’re a real friend.” Then I leaned closer too and raised my eyebrows. “He looks at me like I’m his prized lab rat and has the bedside manner of a morgue fridge.”
We laughed together, then Doc Emerson straightened his posture and crossed his arms.
“You are sort of his prized patient, Lucy.”
“Because I’m the only one who didn’t die?” I said bluntly, half kidding.
But Doctor Emerson just cleared his throat and averted his gaze. I’d accidentally hit the nail on the head.
I traced the edge of my blanket with my finger. “It was nice to go outside today. I mean, except for the whole ‘still need to wear stupid protective gear thing.” I frowned, feeling suddenly sullen.What if it didn’t get better than this? What if I still had to live a half-life?
"Not so long ago, you couldn't go outside at all." His voice carried that gentle firmness I'd grown to recognize—the tone he used when I needed perspective. "Your entire body is repairing damage from a lifetime of sickness, and it’s doing so at lightning speed. Even so, your idea of normal may not be attainable, Lucy. You need to come to terms with that.”
“Tell me something I don’t know, Doc. The mirror,” I lifted one hand and pointed a finger towards myself, then drew an air circle around my face, “made sure I knew normal wasn’t goingto happen. No one told me I’d become a paper white freakazoid with grandma hair.”
“Yes, well, the physical changes on the outside were unexpected. Yet, I think the new look suits you.”
“Sure, maybe I’ll start a new beauty trend. We’ll call it ‘sickly Victorian child’ with melanin deficiency.”
Emerson laughed as I flipped my prematurely silver hair over my shoulder. It shone metallic in some light, snowy white in others. My skin was the same way. Translucent alabaster under the facility fluorescent glows, shimmery pearl in real sunlight. My blue-green veins were always visible enough to trace with my fingertips. And my eyes… a jarringly bright emerald now instead of a deeper forest.
"Maybe I'll rebrand it as 'ethereal otherworldly being,'" I said, trying to keep my tone light. "Sounds more marketable than 'sickly Victorian child.'"
Doctor Emerson chuckled, but his eyes held something deeper—a mix of pride and concern that I'd grown accustomed to seeing. "I do think people would find something like immortal elf more appealing.”
“I suppose,” I mused.
Doc Emerson cleared his throat. “Look, Lucy," he said, his tone shifting slightly. "The Eros Institute wants to transfer you to their headquarters in Seattle."
My breath caught. "Seattle? As in... not here anymore?"
"Yes, and I know it’s a huge change, but I truly believe they’re the best place for you now. Being there means you’ll get the life you want sooner. And..." he hesitated, choosing his words carefully, "they want to get you in their mate database. You could be matched before you’re fully recovered."
