Untitled Chapter
I don’t recognize the reflection in the mirror anymore. By all predictions, I will die in about a month. Even if this life doesn’t give me my formal eviction in thirty days, Nolan will.
Theo works on our place in between his other projects, and he seems to be on schedule with the upstairs renovations nearing completion.
The trunk? I let it go. I don’t know what it all means.
The ‘Kathryn’ tattooed on his arm is his mother.
She was murdered. I should be dead too. I pulled the trigger and the click of not dying won’t stop replaying in my head.
Even the stubborn daughter of the great Oscar Stone can admit when she is wrong. Pulling the trigger was wrong.
My purpose in life? I haven’t completely figured it out, but I’m getting closer to acknowledging my existence—albeit shorter than I’d hoped—means something.
Dancing with death for months reveals many secrets of life.
I don’t have kids or even that many friends, but if I did, I’d want my lasting impression on them to be this: Every life matters, but never one more than another.
Sometimes silence holds more meaning than words.
And love … it’s infinitely impossible to define, but unequivocally, without any doubt, the reason we are here.
“I’ll be gone for a few days,” Theo announces as he slides on his trousers, no underwear.
Sex has been a constant between us for the past few months.
He didn’t pull the trigger either, but that night I swear he tried to fuck me an inch from my life.
It was punishing, demanding, controlling, and life-changing.
As much as he tried to hide it, I felt every ounce of his pain over what happened that day.
I can’t bring myself to address the depression that’s been brought on by my diagnosis.
It’s not just the diagnosis; it’s Theo. Accepting death was easier after leaving Daniel and Oscar—severing the ties that fed my guilt over wanting to live out my days on my own terms. Theo makes me want to live all my days, even the ones I cannot have—more than I wanted to live them for Daniel or Oscar—and that is too much to take.
Still … it’s just been sex mixed with a growing web of lies that serves as a nice barrier to the truth. It’s fucked-up in so many ways, yet equally perfect. The one truth we share is that everything is a lie.
I slip on my shirt and pull up my knickers as I stand. “Where are you going?”
Theo glances over his shoulder, his bronze beard a bit longer, his blue eyes a bit softer but they still hold an edge of warning.
I shrug. “Lie to me.”
After studying me for a few moments, his focus returns to his zip, yanking it up while he clears his throat. “Kentucky.”
A chill slithers along my skin, awakening the curiosity that I’ve suppressed for months since finding the trunk. “Want company?”
He shakes his head. “Don’t you have a wedding to plan?”
My grunt echoes with sarcasm. “Yes. I need to firm up things with the caterer, do the final fitting for my dress, and stop fucking my bearded housemate.”
Theo runs a hand through his tangled hair, walking away from me. “Well check ‘stop fucking your bearded housemate’ off your list. We’re done.”
“Fine. I’ll call the caterer.”
“You don’t have a phone.” He slams the bathroom door.
“Fuck you.” I scowl at the door.
He’s right. I don’t have a phone. I don’t have a caterer or a fiancé either. I barely have a life.
*
My mum died of ovarian cancer, but not before they nearly gutted her on an operating table, injected poison into her veins, and charred her inside and out with radiation.
Cut.
Poison.
Burn.
That was my earliest lesson in cancer, a firsthand account from Oscar. Maybe I haven’t seen enough miracles in my life to put my entire existence in the hands of companies whose livelihood depends on treating not curing cancer.
Mum was declared NED “No Evidence of Disease.” My father took her to Italy to celebrate while my nana watched me. I was eighteen months old.
Modern medicine cured her. Cue the confetti.
Six months later, they found cancer in her liver, lungs, and brain.
Thirty-seven days later, she died. I don’t remember that but my mum’s death has played out in the depths of my father’s grief-stricken eyes since my earliest age of remembrance.
He didn’t want her to have the chemo in the first place.
Cancer is the effect of weaknesses in the body, not the cause of it.
My mum obliterated the last shred of her immune system with carcinogens.
Someone—anyone with a spark of true intelligence—has to see the irony in treating cancer with carcinogens.
My opinion is wildly unpopular. Does it matter?
No. It’s just my opinion and it only should matter to me.
My mum wanted the treatment. As much as I feel cheated of a life with her, I could never blame her for taking the path in life she chose to take. It’s a bittersweet celebration of freedom.
“Scarlet Stone,” the nurse calls my name.
The air reeks of disinfectant and the temperature is much cooler than necessary. The setting supports my belief that humans go to the doctor to die, not to live. If they’re going for the modern-day mortuary feel, mission accomplished.
I giggle. The timing is terrible, but I can’t help it. I imagine the nurse saying, “Scarlet Stone, we’ll fit you for your coffin now.” Maybe the cancer has spread to my brain. At least I could blame my crazy thoughts on that instead of having to completely claim them as my own.
“Let’s get you weighed, and then I’ll have you deposit a urine sample in this cup and place it on the shelf in the restroom.”
The nurse frowns at my weight. How professional of her.
I wee. Find my room. Undress. And sit on the folded gown.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Yes,” I respond.
The doctor enters with his head down, focused on his electronic tablet. When did bedside manner become optional?
“Scarlet, I’m Doctor—” He looks up, then down, then turns.
“Sorry, do you need help with your gown?”
“Nope. If your medical degree is legit, then I don’t think my naked body should be an issue. Don’t act like you’re not going to ask me to recline back and spread my legs.”
“Ms. Stone, it’s protocol for you to—”
“Protocol schmotocol … I’m not hitting on you. I simply think the paper-gown peekaboo game is utterly ridiculous. Let’s just get on with this.”
I can’t explain my behavior, because I’m not a nudist. The only good reason I have for making this poor man feel uncomfortable is Theo. Since he tried to dismiss everything between us, I’ve sort of run out of give-a-fucks.
He turns and clears his throat.
However, it is quite ironic how I’m the one who feels most vulnerable with that stupid gown on, yet he’s the one who is clearly uncomfortable without me wearing it.
“So you’re here to … check on your cancer?” His finger traces along the screen, repeating my Reason For Visit verbatim.
“Yes.”
“I don’t have any of your medical records. Have you had a cancer diagnosis?”
“Yes.”
“Well, without your records, I can only run through standard procedure: physical exam, blood and urine tests—”
“Give me your tablet.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t—”
I hop off the table. There are probably not enough days left in my life to learn to play by the rules, but that’s what I’m here to find out. He steps back until the wall meets him. I’m seriously questioning his medical degree.
“You can’t do this,” he protests as I snatch the tablet from him.
“I’m here to check on my cancer…” I access the internet “…and you need my medical records…” my finger eats up the screen, making haste with my mildly-illegal hack into my own medical records “…so I’m getting you my records so we don’t have to reschedule and wait for all the …
protocol to be followed. Things run much more smoothly when we look at rules and laws as recommendations. Helpful—or sometimes not—suggestions.”
“Ms. Stone, this is completely un—”
“Here.” I hand him the tablet.
He smooths over his dark hair and adjusts his thick round glasses before he takes the tablet. I ease my bare bum back onto the table and fold my hands in my lap while he reads in silence for several minutes.
“How do you feel?” He finally looks up with a deep line of confusion along his brow.
“Amazing. That’s just it. I haven’t felt this good in…” I shake my head “…forever.”
“Any pelvic or abdominal pain?”
I shake my head.
“Bloating?”
“A bit when I first arrived in Savannah five months ago. It was mild and disappeared within a few weeks.”
“Loss of appetite?”
I shake my head.
“Urinary issues such as increased frequency or urgency?”
I shake my head.
He releases a long breath, eyes moving across the tablet again. “Back pain, menstrual changes, fatigue, pain during sex?”
I continue to shake my head.
“You’re below normal weight for your height and age.”
“Weight charts have been adjusted over the years to normalize obesity, especially in children. It’s truly disturbing. I’m not underweight.”
I don’t share that a little over two months ago I was very underweight. Something tells me he wouldn’t understand the health benefits of liquid fasting. Conventional medicine frowns upon anything that doesn’t come in the form of a prescription.
“I’m not an oncologist, but I can say the progression and symptoms of cancer can be different for everyone, especially with ovarian cancer. We’re not going to know anything definitive until we do a few tests. Then you can meet with an oncologist to discuss further treatment.”
My name is Scarlet Stone. I think modern medicine is miraculous—as well as overrated, corrupt, and sometimes deadly. I’m not sure when doctors began to focus on treating the symptoms instead of the root cause of disease. Whenever that was, they could no longer abide by their oath to “do no harm.”
“Further treatment? I haven’t had any treatment, and I don’t want treatment.
I just want to know where I stand because three different doctors gave me six months to live without treatment.
I sold my worldly possessions and deposited almost all of the money into my ex-fiancé’s savings account.
” My voice escalates with each word as I fist my hands in my lap.
“I buried my past—my life—in London and stamped it with a gravestone, never to return. I came here to die, but I don’t feel like I’m dying.
My lease is up in thirty days. I just need to know if I’m going to die on time! ”
The unsuspecting doctor winces.
Something drips onto my leg. I look down at the clear moisture, then I touch my fingers to my cheek. I don’t know when I started crying, but sure enough, the little bastards broke free. After brushing them away, I press the heels of my hands to my eyes and slowly shake my head.
“Just run the tests,” I whisper.