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THE FOURTH OF July was a reminder that Abigail's father walked out when she was seven. She hadn't seen him since, not even at her many surgeries. All she remembered was his loud punches and soft yells. She wasn't sure if she was allowed to miss him. Hell, Clay went to therapy for whatever their father did while raising him.
"Abby," Clay said, knocking on her door. She peeked her head from underneath her covers, blond hair tangled in front of her eyes. "Time to wake up, sleepy head." He walked over and slid underneath her covers. "What's the matter?"
Truth to be told, Abigail had nothing really bothering her. She always got a little sad on the Fourth of July, but that was different. She shrugged and snuggled up against Clay, who gave her a gentle smile. He smelled of cigarettes and the ocean. That's how Clay has smelled every single summer since he was fourteen. It's okay because she still loved him either way.
"Did they start getting ready for the party?" she whispered, closing her eyes again.
Clay chuckled, closing his eyes too. "Yeah, they did. But I'm pretty sure they ain't gonna mind if you show up just a bit later than normal." Yeah, because I'm sick. "You're fine, Abs. Just stay in bed if you don't feel good."
Abigail pressed her lips together. "Yes, sir." Clay grinned and pressed a kiss to her forehead, getting up with a slight groan. "Bye, Clay." "Bye, Abby."
Abigail didn't remember much anymore. Well, the doctors like to say it's because of how sick she is. But she was better than she was two months ago. In fact, she was better than she was six years ago. Abigail was cured. (If only delusion was a form of healing.)
She pushed her sheets off her cold body, feeling the sun fall through her thin curtains. The lace was never good at blocking the sun out of her bedroom. Abigail sat up, feeling her shoulders pop from their sockets as she stepped up from her bed.
Her slippers dragged rhythmically along the floor as she trudged to the bathroom. Her medication wasn't working. She knew that. The side effects were getting to be too much. But she wasn't planning on telling her mother anything. She couldn't do that to her family again.
Abigail brushed her hair from her face, taking a deep breath as she washed her face. All she felt these days was sluggish and miserable. Abigail brushed her teeth as she stared into the mirror. She always looked so dead.
"Baby?" Diane Parker asked, looking into the bathroom. Abigail wriggled her fingers as she spit out her toothpaste. "Good morning, Abigail. How'd you sleep?"
"I slept fine, ma." Abigail lied through her teeth, eye twitching as she spoke. Her mother didn't know about her spiked drink, or the butterflies that came from Conrad Fisher, or even how she wasn't taking her medication after today. "I'll be down in a second."
Abigail stared at herself in the mirror, taking note of her puffy eyes and chapped lips. She stared at her pill bottle. She knew it was wrong to skip her medication. Wrong beyond belief, in fact. But Abigail was sick of feeling like shit, even while taking them. Abigail Parker was sick, and no amount of pills was going to fix that. So what was the point of taking them anymore?
