The cool overheadlights and the incessant buzz and beeps of machines rattle my brain. Every sound is so sharp, like an electric shock to my already tattered nerves.
“Are you doing okay?” someone asks, but I don't have the energy to respond. My mouth feels glued shut, and only as I peer up to see the concern etched between the brows of Jenna, the brunette nurse, do I realise my jaw is clenched and I'm white-knuckling the armrests.
“Adhira, is there something I can get for you?”
How do I tell her the only thing I bloody want is a body that won't betray me?
“N-no, I'm okay. Thank you,” I manage.
“The first infusion is overwhelming for everyone. I can't promise that it'll get better. I won't lie or try to placate you, butI can tell you that as the process becomes more familiar, at least the infusion itself won't be so anxiety-inducing.”
I appreciate her bluntness more than she can know. Of course, I don't tell her that. I'm not able to give her more than a grunt and what I hope is something resembling a small smile.
The IV tape tugs at the fine hairs on my arm, each pull a small, grounding sting, reminding me that I’ll have a port placed soon.
“I'm going to grab you a bottle of water and let you relax for a few minutes before I start the infusion. Okay?”
I nod.
Jenna walks away, and as she leaves me, I breathe a sigh of relief. It's not her fault that everything just feels like…too much. I'm exhausted and overwhelmed by it all the same.
“Jenna's my favourite of the nurses. She's a good stick, too, and if you look real pitiful, you can trick her into sharing some of the homemade sticky toffee pudding she brings in for her coworkers with ya.”
It takes several seconds for me to realise the words, spoken with a heavy Scottish accent, are meant for my ears.
I turn towards the voice, picking at my nail polish as I stare blankly at him. “I'm sorry, what was that?”
The older gentleman releases a deep-bellied laugh that doesn't match the atmosphere of this place. “It's been a long time since anyone's ignored me quite so thoroughly, lass. But seems like ye need a wee somethin’ to distract ya.”
“You could say that,” I grumble.
His humour cuts through the static in my head, something warm to latch onto.
And that's how I wind up spending the entirety of my first infusion with a chatterbox of an old Scot. He remains well past the time his infusion is complete, keeping me companywith stories of his youth and inappropriate jokes that have me cracking my first real smiles in what seems like forever.
“You plan to have your friends or family join ya for the next one?” Archie asks at the end of my infusion as Jenna removes the IV from my arm.
Guilt splinters through me—sharp and uninvited. An absurd loneliness of my own creation, worsening the prickling feeling spreading from the centre of my chest throughout my limbs.
I ignore the question, gathering my things, and rush out of the building like my arse is on fire, sparing Archie a wave.
It takes twice as long to get home as it did to find my way to the infusion centre. My mind races, and the walk to my flat does little to quiet my thoughts.
The flat smells of fresh paint as I unlock the door and slip inside, sagging against it with a relieved breath. Judging by the distinct lack of additional items, my new flatmate hasn’t arrived yet.
Exhaustion weighs heavily on me. Rather than stick around to meet him, I make quick work of changing into pyjamas, drawing the blackout curtains shut, and slipping beneath the covers for a well-deserved nap.
The rush of my own pulse fills my ears, vision tunnelling as if the world is narrowing to a pinpoint.
My gaze darts around the room in search of anyone to rescue me from this quiet prison, but the blurry faces surrounding me shift into familiar ones of friends and family. People I know I’m going to let down with my actions. I want to scream for them, beg them to understand.
My tongue feels tethered to my soft palate, air no longer filling my lungs. I’m suffocated by the first tragedy I ever faced—time not healing the wounds, but rather, dulling the hues of that horrific memory.
My parents stand over a casket, one too small for an adult. I try to call for them, but no sound comes out as they turn to face me, tears pooling in their eyes, their hands raised to beckon me over.
I walk on shaky limbs, heart racing, fear gripping me.
The air smells faintly of marigolds—the same cloying sweetness that clung to my brother’s corpse.
