A wave of nausea washed over me as the alcohol took hold, and I felt disoriented.
I could barely make out the mocking voices around me, along with Jim’s cold, indifferent tone: “For someone as wicked as you, you should learn from Emma’s kindness.”
When I woke up, it was already the next morning.
The partygoers were long gone, leaving behind nothing but a mess.
I picked myself up off the floor, my head pounding from the alcohol. It took a while before the memories of the previous night started to come back.
A bitter smile tugged at my lips.
I’d drunk too much and passed out – just like before. No one cared. They just left me there, as always, to fend for myself.
Suddenly, a sharp pain tore through my chest. I doubled over, clutching my mouth as I coughed until a metallic taste filled my throat.
The warm, salty blood pooled in my mouth, seeping through my fingers.
I paused, then pulled out my phone and called a cab to take me to the hospital.
When the doctor saw me, he greeted me with a familiar nod. “Miss Jones,” he said, “back for more medication?”
Late-stage leukemia.
I’d been dealing with this for a long time.
This was Dr. Sam Harding, my primary physician.