Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
While I try to juggle school, treatments, and taking care of my grandma, the twins and their friends find new ways to make my life a living hell.
At least they don’t know I’m sick, because I’d rather be bullied than pitied.
Question is. How much more can I take before I break into a million pieces?
This book can be read as a standalone. Please be aware of the triggers. HEA guaranteed
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
EMMA
“How are you feeling, sweetheart? How are you holding up?”
The question isn’t directed at me, but it makes me smile a little, anyway. I turn my head to the right far enough to watch a middle-aged man with worry etched across his face, leaning over to squeeze the hand of the woman sitting in a chair just like mine, next to a machine just like mine.
Receiving chemotherapy, just like me.
She gives him a weary smile that lights up her face, even if the effect doesn’t last for long. She’s trying to be strong—to be brave for him. I might not know what it’s like to have somebody sit with me through this, but I am familiar with putting on a brave face.
The last thing I want is for Grandma’s health to get any worse because of me. It’s bad enough she had to spend so much of Grandpa’s life insurance payout to fund our move, and all because she wanted me to get the best care possible. We can’t risk her having another stroke. It might not be small this time, the way it was before. And I don’t know what I would do without her.
So it’s for the best that even though she wants to be here, I always tell her to stay home and rest. Officially, there’s nothing she could do here, anyway, besides sit and make up stories about the people we see. That’s something she likes to do when she’s bored—deciding who people are and where they come from, what made them cross paths with us. She watches a lot of movies and loves the ones where characters have secrets they hide from the rest of the world.
I know all about secrets.
I also know that once I’m finished, there’ll be a narrow window of time when I’ll be able to drive before the exhaustion gets to be too much. I could get a cab or an Uber, but it feels like a waste of money we need for other things. That’s why I’m out of my chair as soon as the nurse says it’s okay for me to go. I feel the clock ticking, and like secrets, that’s nothing new. I have felt the clock ticking for a long time. Thankfully, everybody seems positive and helpful based on my reaction to treatment so far.
So maybe it’s ticking a little softer, but the sound is still there. It follows me everywhere I go, which right now means trailing me down the hall to the elevator, hovering over my shoulder all the way down to the lobby, then through the revolving doors leading outside. Things are pretty quiet out here at this time of night. It’s past seven, meaning shift change has already gone through, and close enough to the end of visiting hours that most randoms have already left. Spend enough time in a hospital and you start to pick up on routines.
Fresh air is a nice change of pace after breathing recycled hospital air that smells of bleach and staleness. I always make it a point to take a few deep breaths to clear my head on my way to the car, like I’m leaving treatment behind for now. Sort of like taking a shower to wash the day away. Same idea. The scent still clings to my clothes, though, as I hustle toward the late-model Hyundai that sometimes requires a lot of praying before it will start. I really hope tonight isn’t one of those times, since I’m sort of in a hurry.
At least, I was in a hurry before I hear what sounds like a fight going on a couple of rows away from where I’m parked. There’s a handful of cars scattered around up there.
Don’t go over there. My instincts are screaming at me to mind my own business while I come to a stop, looking around the mostly dark lot for any sign of whoever is making those pained, grunting noises. Curiosity and concern are what makes my feet move in the direction of the noise, even as I tell myself to stop. This isn’t your fight. This isn’t your problem. Maybe not, but I would want somebody to help me if it was my problem. That’s a lot of what’s wrong with the world in a nutshell, really. People who can’t be bothered to get a little uncomfortable for somebody else’s sake.
A large, black truck blocks most of what’s happening next to it, but as I slowly round the front, I’m rewarded with a better view—though I can’t say I’m glad now that I have a look at the battered, bloody guy on the ground, curled in a ball and gasping for air.
That’s not the worst part. The worst part is not one, but two men standing over him—breathing hard, fists clenched at their sides.