Accolade

chapitre vingt-trois

I would always be haunted by change.

It can happen in the blink of an eye. Sometimes, there is no way of seeing it coming and it is rarely comfortable to accept. One second, I was going about my normal routine; and the next, I had lost control. It was uncustomary for a ballerina to lose control, I was expected to master my body. It didn't matter if my muscles cramped, if my head spun, I would perform. 

I knew nothing else. Although I found myself seeking a different way to forget. 

Lucy wasn't an alcoholic but whenever we went out for brunch or dinner, she would order a cocktail or margarita. Usually one but sometimes more. She had always offered to buy one for me but I would decline and then she would try to convince me that it's okay to forget about things. It would ease my nerves. 

Now, it was all I wanted. 

To forget for a moment. 

I hadn't actually had any alcohol. I had too many things going for me at once. Between Mom's diagnosis and my career starting in New York City, things happened incredibly fast. It almost felt like a blur now. I had turned twenty-one two years ago and never went out to celebrate. Never drank. Never been drunk. I was too concerned about my health and career. 

None of it mattered anymore. 

I didn't remember arriving back at my apartment. My words had sent us both into dead silence. There was only the sharp inhale from Warren and then he said nothing. He didn't get angry, he must have understood that I wasn't just saying it. I felt it now. I was telling him how I felt without actually meaning to and he didn't try to coddle me. 

As humans, we don't want to admit the truth. It can be the sharpest blade that leaves the deepest wounds. We struggle when others admit their truths to us because we don't know how to respond. How can you tell someone it will be okay when they're dying? When they've been shattered from the inside out? Were sweet lies better in a moment of grim silence? 

Of course not. 

We didn't even look at each other because I was sure it would hurt. We rode the elevator in silence. We walked into my apartment in silence. River was sitting at the kitchen island with his laptop, his sharp eyes didn't miss anything.

"What happened?" He asked, urgently--hesitantly, as if he knew already that the news wouldn't be good. He had walked up to me and set his hands on my shoulders. I felt so small in comparison to him. He was an entire head taller than me. Those grey eyes were sharp, desperate, as they connected with my watery gaze. "Aida, what did Dr. Welsh tell you?"

"Chemo... isn't working," I choked on the words. Tears fell down my cheeks and somehow, I expected it to be blood. If my body was truly giving up on me, when would things stop working? 

River grew tense. His eyes scanned my face and then he was pulling me into his chest but I caught his eyes flickering up to Warren. His arms anchored me. Between my uneven breaths, I heard muffled words and then my apartment door closed with a little more force than normal. 

I had exhausted my tears lately and only stayed in River's embrace for a few more minutes before I pulled away. He let me, observing my every movement like a hawk. I walked to the sink and filled a half glass of water.

I took my painkillers with some water and then I retreated to the couch. I slunk onto the cushions and pulled my blanket around my entire body. I put on another episode of Lucifer and hoped it would distract me. Ten minutes later, I felt alright.  

That was the thing about drugs, they made me feel good. It didn't matter if they were for medical purposes, it was like oxycontin; there was danger. They promised that I was getting better when in all reality, it was altering my brain chemistry so that I didn't realize how bad it was getting. I knew people who did drugs, heard stories, and they took more and more to achieve the same effect. I had gone from taking painkillers once a day to twice a day, which Dr. Welsh had said would help.