Or maybe I do.
Who the fuck knows.
Shuffling through broken glass, I creep out of my room. Light flickers from the door left ajar at the end of the hall.
“... advised to wear a mask in the affected areas…”drones the news-guy.
My legs are lead blocks. A few steps and I’m out of breath. When was the last time I ate? My stomach rolls. The old woman next door made us a lasagna two days ago but I finished the last piece yesterday. We don’t have any cash left since I used Dad’s disability check to cover the electricity and water bills. My student loan money is gone too. (We’d be facing eviction if the landlord wasn’t one of Dad’s old work buddies.)
Wading through dust and the pungent odor of sickness that permeates the walls of our apartment, I approach Dad’s room and cautiously push the door in—
“Dad?”
Eerie silence greets me.
Not today. Please, not today.
In the dim light of the television, he’s a ghost.
You can’t. You’re all I have left.
Vacant eyes stare through me from the bed.
How could you?
The blood in the corner of his mouth is dry.
Now I’m alone.
I’m shaking. I think I’m crying. I can’t feel a fucking thing.
Suddenly, rage railroads into my chest. A roar tears from my throat. I’m a hurricane, blasting through the room, launching medical supplies, empty nutritional bags and prescription bottles in every direction.
“... low visibility and poor air conditions for most of the week…”
My fist flies into the TV. Blood sprays from my knuckles. Ragged, broken sobs that don’t sound human pour from me asI gather the remaining pain pills and stumble back to my room. I rip into the dingy closet and dig through the clutter for the last sliver of comfort hidden in the back.
Tears splatter on the pebbled leather as I brush a thick layer of dust off V’s case. I sink to the floor and pick up one of the prescription bottles.
My hands tremble so hard it takes four tries to open the cap.
Then I dump them all in my mouth.
Choke them down.
My body riots, gagging and burning with bile.
I fight it, a chant chorusing through my shattered mind.
Alone. Alone. Alone. Alone.
Everything moves in slow motion.
I don’t want to be alone.
“Remy,” I whimper. “I want… Remy.”
Suddenly, instinct kicks in. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to leave this world without seeing him one last time. Without telling him the truth. Without saying those three words to him.
