Sitting at the hospital waiting for the test results, I can feel the building sway as its foundations swell and recede in the storm. The contents of the pale brown cup in my hands from the automatic vending machine are cold and somehow unaffected by the weather, but I am too tired to move and find somewhere to dispose of it, or even to lean over and put it down next to my feet. I keep it in my hands. It gives me something to think about. I think I’d like to die on a Sunday. It feels more conclusive.
2018 was the worst year of my life. Both grandparents on my father’s side had died, followed very swiftly by my mother, and a six year relationship with someone who deserved better than my ability to merely exist, came to an end. That was a few years ago now, and I don’t blame her. A few months later I had dated, and once more broken up with, a nice girl because I hadn’t been ready, didn’t know what a new relationship was supposed to entail, and decided that it was ultimately easier to be on my own. I have only told one person about my tests, about the small pieces of skin detaching and not being able to feel it, and about the eyes. I have never met her face to face. Continue reading