Life has become…

I don’t even know the word to describe it.

Exhausting.

Depressing.

Inescapable.

Lonely.

When Bruno stormed out of my apartment two weeks ago, I said, “Fuck him…good riddance.”

He called, texted, and even knocked, but I never answered or let him in. I didn’t want anyone around me, especially him. He wasn’t telling me something, and I was done playing games.

I’ve never been the girl to be okay with secrets.

I waited for him to bust down my door and come barging in, but he didn’t.

The last week has been peaceful. Even Becca had become scarce. Her boss had slammed her at work, making her work double shifts.

Chemo still kicks my ass, and I feel sicker than I ever have before. I crawl around my apartment when I need to get around. I learned quickly to set everything up before I go for treatment. I put enough water out, small snacks if I become hungry, and have my vomit pot nearby in case I need it. I don’t need anyone around to take care of me, especially him.

My buzz cut now is splotchy with smooth patches and very little hair left. My eyebrows are gone, my eyelashes are hanging on by a thread, and the rest of me is smoother than ever before. Every time I look in the mirror, I have to do a double take.

I’ve lost too much weight. I look like a walking, hairless skeleton. There isn’t a person in the world I want to see me like this. I have my groceries delivered and have only left my place to go to chemo or the doctor’s and then come straight home.

I try to watch television, but nothing holds my interest. I can’t laugh or get lost in anything, not even a book that I would’ve enjoyed before.

I still fear death. How can I not?

When I find the energy, I start to clean out every drawer and closet I have. If I do pass away, I don’t want anyone to have to go through my stuff. I remember how the family acted when my grandmother died. They combed through her things, and everything that had been private became public. The smartest thing she did was label the big items. On the back of every painting, piece of furniture, or decoration, she’d put a piece of tape with the name of the person she wanted to have it after she left this world. I thought it was peculiar at the time, but now, I understand her thinking. She knew at her age that the end was close and she wanted her wishes fulfilled.

But I have no one to leave my things to except Rebecca. Besides work, the only important stuff in my life had been my things.

Things no one wants.

My prized possessions would be donated to a thrift shop. Someone would spend a couple of bucks when I’d spent hundreds of dollars and tried my best to keep up the perfect exterior.

What a fuckin’ waste.

Instead of spending time with friends and possibly finding the love of my life, I worked and shopped. What the heck would my obituary read?

“Callie Gentile died at the age of thirty-two with a killer shoe collection, an unrivaled designer clothing closet, and alone. In lieu of flowers, please send a payment to Visa to help pay off her shopping addiction.”

My life has been laughable.

It’s just my things and me.

I sit in the dark propped up against the wall inside my walk-in closet as my eyes sweep over my life. What I was once proud of now makes me ashamed. Tears stream down my face, but I don’t have the energy to sob.

I hang my head, a war going on inside of me. I know I’m being selfish and ridiculous. My mind isn’t right.

The light streaming into my closet makes my shoe collection look like a shrine. A dumb one, but it’s all I have.

“Callie,” Bruno’s voice is soft.

I don’t move and I don’t call back. I wipe my face and glance toward the door, waiting for him to go away.

“Open the fucking door!” His voice grows louder as he pounds on the door. I’m sure every one of my neighbors has heard him by now.

Oh, shit. Bruno’s pissed. I don’t have to open the door to know it. My phone starts to ring and I jump. Quickly, I cover it with my hands to quiet it.

“I can hear your phone. Open the door.”

I grimace and roll my eyes. “Fucking traitor,” I hiss and look down at my phone.

Me: Go away.

A text would do the trick. I push myself off the floor and walk into my bedroom.

“No!” he yells and I flinch.

Me: I’ll call the police.

“Go ahead. I’ll be in before they get here.”

Ah! Grrr. Scary Bruno has returned.

I inch toward the door and try not to make a sound.

“Callie.” His voice is softer this time. “I need to know you’re okay.”

I take the coward’s way out.

Me: I’m fine. Please just leave.

There’s no reply. I wait, listening for anything that indicates he’s left, and when I hear nothing, I take another step. Slowly, I walk toward the door and place my eye against the peephole. Blackness. Nothing. Not even the lights in the hallway. I look again, confused.

“I see you,” he says.

I jump. Fucking hell.

“I can see you through the peephole. Just let me in.”

Placing my back against the door, I slide down, settling in front of it to block his way. He can break in and probably push it open even with my weight against it, but I figure it’s my only chance. He isn’t getting through, no matter what.

I don’t hear anything for at least a minute before he says, “I’m not giving up. I’ll be back.”

I swallow, fighting the dryness in my throat, and my nerves are shot. I know he means it. I can only put him off for so long. I don’t move, even after I hear his feet stomping down the stairway.

My head starts to bang against the door. At first, it’s a reaction but then it becomes something more. I’m so pissed.

Angry about everything.

Everything.

I can’t think of one thing or person I’m not pissed at, and smashing my head repeatedly into the wooden door just feels right.

“Why me?” I yell into the air. “Why did it have to be me?”

I don’t know if I expect an answer, but it feels good getting it off my chest.

“Fuck you!” I yell again and slam my hands down on the floor.

I’m pissed at my doctor, cancer, chemo, my work, cancer, Rebecca, Bruno, cancer, my parents for leaving me alone. I can’t think of anything that doesn’t piss me off.

Even my shoe collection aggravates the fuck out of me. Who needs so many fucking shoes? I have two goddamn feet. Maybe if I’d spent more time enjoying life rather than buying things, I wouldn’t be in this situation.

Laughter bursts out of me.

Hysterical, crazy laughter.

I think I seriously have gone off the deep end.

I’ve lost every fucking marble inside my head.

How can I think shoes are the issue? I know better than that. It’s easier to blame something so stupid than to realize my own body is attacking itself.

It’s why I chose cancer when I decided to become a scientist. A disease rarely caused by something someone does, yet it affects millions of people. It kills without discrimination. It comes in various forms. Although there have been advances and treatments, there is still no cure. I wanted to change that. It was the worthiest cause I knew when I decided on a professional focus.

I’m not special. I like to think I am, but I know that, just like the other people fighting this disease, it picked me without a thought to who I was.

I laugh until I cry. My emotions are everywhere and I can’t control them. I curl up on the floor as my tears subside. Maybe tomorrow I’ll feel different. Maybe then, I can face the world.

There’s a high probability I’m having a mental breakdown. Being alone and going through the amount of stress I’m going through is a wicked combination.

As I crawl into my bed, I think tomorrow will be different.

---

I stiffen as the bed dips.

Someone crawls into my bed behind me, snaking his arm around me. I didn’t hear a thing.

“Shh. Relax,” the man whispers and pulls my back tighter to his front.

Even though I’m still half asleep, alarm bells are going off in my head. “B-Bruno?” I stutter and pray it’s him.

“Yeah. Go back to sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.” He kisses my neck and I melt against him, relieved he’s here.

Fuck. He broke in…again.

But then again, he feels nice against me. I’ve missed him. His arms make me feel safe. The familiar scent of his body calms me, and I don’t want him to go away.

I haven’t slept right in days… weeks, if I am being honest. Between the chemo, chills, and my lonely bed, everything has been off. I walk the floors most nights… when I have the strength to walk. Panic has been part of my daily routine. I pace and freak out before I start screaming into the emptiness of my apartment, eventually collapsing out of exhaustion.

Instead of kicking him out and starting a fight, I push my back as close to him as possible and close my eyes.

I’d deal with him tomorrow.