Accolade

chapitre vingt-huit

trigger warning: sensitive content

I had woken up the past few mornings to clumps of hair on my pillow. 

My hair had started falling out and I was trying to ignore it.

I knew that this would happen. Dr. Welch had been very specific about the side effects of chemotherapy. I just wish there hadn't been false hope for it to help me because now I wasn't only struggling emotionally but physically as well. My body was showing the toll it had taken from several unproductive sessions of chemotherapy. 

I noticed more and more hair around my apartment. My rugs collected balls of it, I could feel strands on the floor when I went barefoot. There were more strands stuck in the brush when I combed my hair and I had to clean the shower drain frequently because my hair would completely clog it. I had tried to ignore it. I tried to pretend it wasn't happening. 

Except, it was. 

I was used to putting my hair up for class and performances. Nobody wanted hair in their face when they're dancing. I usually kept my hair in a slicked bun. But when I let my hair down at the end of the day, it no longer radiated and shone with healthiness. I couldn't run my fingers through the silky strands. My hair had become so dull and dry and no amount of hair product could help it. 

Like a skeleton, my flesh was rotting. 

Bones whittling. 

I hadn't realized how long I stood in my bathroom with the door open. My hairbrush in one hand and the other hand holding the sparse ends of my sad locks. I couldn't tear my eyes from the reflection of a corpse. My skin had become even paler. The fullness of a healthy body abandoned me and let my true skeleton out of the closet. I couldn't even recognize myself anymore. 

This wasn't me. 

It had been two months since my diagnosis and I was still denying its thieving nature.

"What's going on in your head today, Little Aida?" 

My eyes closed at the soft inquiry of Auden's voice. For some reason, it grounded me. I inhaled for the first time in what felt like ages and set my brush down on the edge of the sink. "Nothing, I'm just tired." 

I didn't have to open my eyes to watch him glance at my hairbrush, loaded with way too much hair, and less than half my hair combed properly. 

"I've seen you tired, and this isn't it," He explained softly, and then after a moment of hesitation, he asked, "Has your hair started falling out?" 

My eyes snapped to his. He had hit the nail on the head and my lip wobbled. I gave him a nod, scared I'd burst into tears if I spoke, and I hated that it was my response to everything lately. Could I go one day without crying? 

"Oh, Aida," He reached out and gently brushed his knuckles along my jaw, "You're still beautiful, and you always will be. Don't worry about it." 

"But it's falling out in clumps," I whispered, my voice was more frightened than I cared to admit. These were the signs that meant nothing else good could come. Dare I even say, my time was actually running out. "I can't even brush my hair without half of it coming out. I'm scared to even touch it anymore." 

"Would you like me to brush it?" 

For some reason, his offer brought relief. Maybe if I closed my eyes while he did it and I didn't see the clumps of hair, then I wouldn't feel this way. I wouldn't see the obvious signs of cancer affecting my body and stealing my health. "Yes, please," I told him.