Seventeen-year-old Hazel never saw having a sick mom in her future. And the last thing she expected was for her new next-door neighbor to give her a checklist that would change everything.
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After Hazel Winter's mom got sick, all emotion vanishe...
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I'M PRETTY SURE I'm severely fucked up in the head.
And no, not in the way you're thinking. I'm not talking about anxiety, depression, or anything of the mental illness sort. If that were the case, I would already be diagnosed and popping pills by now.
I'm talking about not having any emotions whatsoever. For example, I don't think I've cried since my pet turtle died when I was in the fifth grade, and even then, it wasn't much. It was a couple of tears if that. My mom held this elaborate funeral for him before she got sick. That was the last good year I can remember.
Isn't it sad that a funeral of a fucking turtle is the last decent memory I have?
I'm sure if my mom wasn't in the hospital every other week, then she might have noticed that I stopped showing emotions. I can't remember the last time I smiled, laughed, or found anything remotely interesting. It feels like I'm a walking corpse, almost. Like I'm only here to help my mom cross over the bridge to heaven before I die, too.
And it's not her fault. It's not her fault that she's sick, and it's not her fault she doesn't have the time to focus on me when she feels like shit ninety percent of the time. A part of me is almost guilty that I wish she'd notice. It's unfair of me to say that when she goes through so much on a daily basis.
When I wake up, I give her about twenty pills to start her daily medication routine, and when I'm home from school, I'm doing all the household chores before the doctor's appointments begin, except for the weekends when her aid takes over. We go over all of the information that I've memorized by heart, and then they'll try to switch her medications that she's already on to get a different result, which never seems to work. Then we deal with all the side effects that this new medication brings: nausea, diarrhea, hair loss, and headaches... And then, I call the doctor again to figure out a way to help her before the cycle repeats itself again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
I'm a walking robot at this point, so it's unsurprising when the new neighbor that just moved in next door is staring at me oddly as my mom gets wheeled into an ambulance, and I'm just sitting here emotionless, staring off into space like some weirdo. And I am a weirdo. A fucked up in-the-head one.
But I know what the routine is. I'm going to follow behind them in her car because, more than likely, she'll get admitted just like always, and then I'll be stranded at the hospital with no way to get home. Lord knows we don't have family here, and to hell if my dad would come. I haven't seen him in years since he left us.
The neighbor is still standing in the yard. Our houses are extremely close together, their moving truck still in their driveway. He's around my age, tall, tan, and scrawny like he's never seen a gym. He's wearing a beanie, brown strands of hair poking out from the top, his eyes wide and in shock as he stands there gawking at the ambulance.
"Is she okay?" He asks.
Rising from the beaten-down porch steps, I nod and cross my arms over my chest. It's freezing outside. "She's fine. I'm about to follow them now."
"Are you okay? Do you need me to drive you?"
The sentence stops me in my tracks because I don't think I've heard anyone ask if I'm okay. On Facebook, whenever I post updates to our family back in Minnesota, there's always a stream of questions and comments, none of them ever referring to me.
That's why I hesitate before I reply, "No. I'm not one to take rides from strangers. Thanks though."
I know I'm a bitch, but I've always been this way. If I despise anything more than emotions, it's getting to know people. I keep to myself; I stay out of everyone's way and prefer to keep it that way.
"I wouldn't necessarily call us strangers. We're in the same English class. Mrs. Thompson? Fourth period? My first day was yesterday."
Does this guy honestly think that I pay attention to who the fuck is in our class? Does he think I watch the door and analyze every unfamiliar face? Ninety percent of the time, I'm staring down at my desk, and if someone put a gun to my head and asked me to name more than two people sitting beside me, I'd be dead on the spot.
He doesn't know me, though, and he doesn't realize yet that he's speaking to a fucked up, emotionless, cold-hearted bitch.
"Just because we're in the same class doesn't make us friends, or whatever the hell you think we are. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to the hospital."
Throwing his hands up in defeat, he smiles, and a shock so tiny in my gut sends a vibration straight to my chest. His teeth are straight and white, and it almost bothers me that my attitude doesn't seem to phase him. "Sorry, I was just offering to help. See you around, Hazel."
How does he know my name?
Oh, English class. That's right.
Did he really pay attention to the roll call?
I watch him walk into his house, but he pops his head out before he disappears and says, "I hope she's okay."
The front door closes behind him, and I find my feet rooted to the porch step, unable to move. I know I should find this nice, and I should be so thankful that the son of our new neighbors is polite, but all I feel is violated. It makes me feel like he'll keep checking in, and I don't like that one bit.
Hopefully, this was just a one-time thing, though, and maybe from now on, I won't have to speak to him again.
With a loud, frustrated sigh, I head back into the house to grab the car keys.
