Cancer.
It's a curse.
It turns people's lives upside down and ruins their relationships.
Brynne Foster is a perfect example.
After being diagnosed with leukemia at age 17, Brynne's family struggles to accept her decision of refusing chemotherapy...
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Just as I am about to press the green call button, I hear banging from outside of my bedroom door. The previously quiet hallway now has footsteps and muttering echoing throughout it.
It's been about half an hour since Grant left, making it 10:30, I think to myself. No one else in my family would be awake, let alone rummaging in the hallway. A feeling of apprehensiveness takes over me while I begin to panic. My heart starts racing as I think about the possible scenario. What if someone broke in?
I quickly get up, and search my room for an object that could remotely simulate a weapon. Time seems to fly as the footsteps grow closer, and with every second spent looking for a weapon, I am wasting precious time that could be used hiding. Thankfully, my eyes catch a pair of shears across the room, and I swiftly dart in their direction. As soon as the door opens, I am armed and ready for whatever is behind it. My sweaty palms tightly clench the handles as I plant my stance in the opposite corner of the room. I regret not being able to conceal myself, but it'll do.
Distant mutters come from the slight crack in the door. Anticipation fills the room as the person comes closer and closer.
"She is gone," I hear them whisper just a few feet away.
Then suddenly, and without warning, the door flies open, revealing my worst nightmare. Just as I thought I would never see him again, Blake appears out of thin air. His weak voice breaks my heart,
"She's gone," He mumbles again.
How did he get in here?
Stumbling around the room, drops of blood fall from his broken knuckles. He almost trips over my giant suitcase, causing him to grasp at my dresser. His arms fly and throw my favorite picture frame on the ground, making a loud shattering noise. I put down the scissors and walk closer to him, confused why he's not saying anything.
"Blake, what are you doing!" I yell terrified of what he may do next.
He lifts his face, revealing bloodshot eyes and a split lip. The reminiscences of tears underneath his eyes prove that he's been crying for hours. The once healing cuts on his cheeks have turned into scars. My mouth gapes open as I try to process the sight of him in this weak state.
He acts like he doesn't hear me and continues stalking around my room with no purpose in sight. His large feet push around my carpet and tear up my homework. Without warning, he grabs my drawer and pulls it so hard that it comes out of the nightstand, and breaks underneath the pressure.
What in the world is wrong with him?
Once he reaches the wall in front of me, he pauses in confusion. It looks like he may be coming out of his hysteria. His eyes widen as he turns his head to look at me.
"Blake?" I whisper gently, while reaching for his hand. The scent of alcohol drifts from his mouth and into my nose. I scrunch my face in disgust as I recognize vodka and bourbon. Blake never drinks.
