UNEDITED
Not all storms come to disrupt your life, some come to clear your path.
Those are the words that Justin McCallister has been repeating in his mind since the day he was diagnosed with a non-cancerous brain tumour that's been causing partial...
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Justin
I've made a bed that consists of a pillow and a blanket on the bathroom floor. The tile is cold through my T-shirt.
I've been sick since last night.
It didn't hit me right away, but about three hours after I upped my dosage of medication, nausea hit me in full force.
I haven't left the bathroom in over twelve hours. I've barely been able to do anything other than throw up what's left in my empty gut, apologize to Addie for missing out on school, and swallow maybe half a cup of water to ease my burning throat. Though the water didn't stay down very long.
I also have a killer migraine.
Mom keeps coming in every hour or so and checking on me, asking if I need anything.
There are many answers to that specific question. I want to be free of this prison I call my mind. I want to have a family where heartbreak and betrayal cease to exist. I want to wake up with amnesia and forget everything bad that's ever happened to me. I want to remember what it feels like to be happy.
But more importantly, I want to see Addie – the bright, shining beacon of hope I want to be around constantly.
I reach out to grab my phone. Though I'm sick, I'm bored out of my freaking mind. I want to talk to Addie – even if we are just texting.
But as soon as I move, my stomach flips and I'm flinging myself toward the toilet that has become my new best friend.
Since there's nothing left in my stomach, I begin to dry heave. It's not a pretty feeling. I'd rather have something come out than be forced to wait for relief I know isn't going to come.
Behind me, I hear the door open. "Justin?" Mom asks, the pity I've come to despise coating her voice. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
I shake my head, coughing.
Fuck, I must be a cringe-worthy sight right now. A pathetic excuse for a son.
It's pathetic that my body is taking such a nasty beating from something as small as my fingernail. I hate pills.
When I'm done dry heaving, I look at mom, taking in the look I know all too well.
I know that, if she had the power, she'd trade places with me just so I wouldn't have to suffer through this.
We both know that's highly impossible, though.
There's nothing anyone can do.
So, just to make my mom feel better about being as powerless as I am, I nod at the empty glass of water. "Could you get me some more water, please?"
"Of course, honey," Mom says, grabbing the cup.
"Thanks," I reply hoarsely.
As soon as Mom is gone, I collapse on my makeshift bed, running a shaky hand through my hair and squeezing my eyes shut as the same, repetitive questions replay in my head.
Will it ever change?
What did I do to deserve this?
A tear slips down my cheek.
This is a battle I'm losing no matter what I do. No matter how many times I make the right decision with everything, I still manage to mess up or life manages to backhand me.
So the big question is: How much longer until it breaks me for good?
