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Kind of like my heart.
And now, there is no way to respond to him with something actually meaningful.
Fuck.
I stand up slowly, hissing at the pain moving down my shoulder and up my neck, and I hobble toward the bathroom.
Even if I wanted to, I can’t call out sick. I guess I could e-mail, but I can’t even fathom the idea of staying home alone. What would I do with myself all the live long day?
Mope, that’s what.
So instead, I shower and pull on some clothes, not really caring that my shirts haven’t been ironed or that I haven’t shaved my face in days. I stagger into work like I just crawled out of a gutter.
“You look like shit,” Amanda says, but I just ignore her.
She’s right. I’m sure I do. But I don’t care enough to try any harder.
I hear a click, and Amanda is holding her phone up.
“Did you just take my picture?”
“Yep,” she says, popping her gum. “I’m going to send this to Luke so he feels sorry for your sad ass. Maybe he’ll come back and make you nicer again.”
“You will not send that to him. I forbid it.”
She rolls her eyes, and slowly her finger descends onto her phone, smashing into the screen dramatically.
“Oops.”
I sigh loudly and turn to move, but pain lances down my spine again, and I hiss.
“You going to die in your office?” Amanda asks me as I move away from her.
“God, I hope so,” I mutter and slam the door.
I can do this. I can make it through another day.
One foot in front of the other, I think. And maybe, just maybe, Luke will get that picture Amanda sent and come back.
When I see myself in the mirror two hours later, I realize my shirt is inside out, and I have toothpaste on my upper lip. Why no one thought to tell me this is appalling.
I amappalled.
I glance down at the scrape on my forearm and notice it’s lengthened. Probably some toxin got into my system, and it’s heading straight toward my heart.
I’m a dead man walking.
Even though I’m on the brink, I power through. Everyone must feel sorry for me. Two of my patients don’t even meet my eyes. Mrs. Melnyk shuffles around in her purse and hands me an ancient-looking candy that’s seen better days, and shenevershares. She’s always stealing shit from my office––Q-tips, cotton balls, tongue depressors.
I’ll do better tomorrow. I’llbebetter, I tell myself as I lock the door to the office and move into the waiting room.
“Shit,” I mutter, knocking my elbow against the wall when I see someone lurking in the corner like a ghost.
A thin, young man looks over at me and rolls his eyes like he’s annoyed I was afraid.
Well, excuse me for showing emotion. It seems like it’s all I can do nowadays.
Upon closer inspection, the man hanging off a ladder in my waiting room looks somewhat shady. He has silver hair, piercings, and tattoos lining his skin.
