One Last Miracle [complete]

IV

IV

three months, twenty days . . .

I still feel sick the next morning.

Waking up, I should feel happy—ecstatic to be out of hospital. But it hasn't changed since yesterday; the screaming fear is still the same.

Clutching my stomach, I sit up—the movement straining my weak arms. Everything in my room is the same, eerily so. It's as if no one's visited since I went in for chemo.

The walls are still aqua green, bare except for a framed image of Rick and I on the day of my formal. The 48x72 size print takes up most of the right wall. It's a beautiful photo, though looking at it now is painful. It had been taken before I'd walked into the venue, outside in the lush garden. In the photo, I look healthy—if you don't look at the excessive amount of make-up.

I'm not frail like I am now. Back then I'd been unaware of the cancer—so the grin on my face is genuine. The dress is simple. Dark pink, one shouldered and strapless. Tight at the waist. The material flowing on the bottom. It had been soft as a cloud, walking in it a breeze.

Rick looks just as happy, as he stands in front of the tree. He's in a black suit—orders of mum purely to get a good photo. Despite being only nine, his head reaches my shoulder.

God, if someone was to look at it now, then at me there'd be no trace of recognition. In the photo my long blond hair hangs down my back in waves. As I sit here, I have no hair. My face is sunken, none of the healthy glow it has in the picture.

I tear my eyes away, the sight too painful to bear.

Everything else is the same too. My wooden bed has the same green sheets. The dresser next to it still overflows with clothes. The floor is still spotless, despite the fact that carpet is white. My grey bookshelf still has books stacked on top of each other, there's that many. The End of Us still sits proudly alone on the top shelf.

My eyes start to burn and it has nothing to do with how badly my body aches. The person that once slept in this room . . . doesn't feel like me anymore.

And I don't think I'll ever go back to being that person.

"Stop it. Just stop."

My voice is quiet and weak, shaking as badly as my hands.

I want to leave the room, but I can't. I'm on orders of bed rest for at least two days. Besides, I won't be able to physically walk out anyway.

As the light streams into my room, I grab for my iPhone from the other side of the bed. As always, there's Facebook notifications that pop up—some from a year ago. I ignore them, as I always do. The drama of it all is fun when you're in high school. When you're facing death as your reality? Not so much.

What's unusual is the notification of a text from an unknown number. No call or message bank. Just a text.

Curiosity getting the better of me, I swipe, opening the text up. It's probably from someone with the wrong number anyway.