End Game

I think I’m dying.

I’ve been deteriorating for a while now. It started slowly, symptoms easy to brush away due to stress or lack of sleep. Low appetite, restless nights, a nose bleed here or there. Hell, those could be a result of missing… someone.

My heart rate is sporadic, I stumble from a sudden bolt of fatigue, my visions blurs.

I passed out again last night. I called 911 when I came to, but then I remembered the price of an ambulance, the battery of tests they would run on me, and how hard it would be to escape from a hospital ward (nurses can tell when a patient is just making rounds or has the intent to leave). I told the operator I had just tripped and that I didn’t need any help.

My nose started to bleed. I stumbled to the bathroom and held toilet paper to my nose. And then I threw up.


I was afraid I’d die. I didn’t want to be alone if I died. I called Sam.

Christ, Fizz. It’s, like, two in the morning. This better be good.

I don’t want to die alone.

Hello?

I’ll be over in 15.

I think Sam was scared when he saw me. He kept trying to take me to the hospital. Fuck that. That’s where people go to fucking die or be mutilated. He somehow pried me away from the toilet and picked me up. I thought he was going to drag me to the ER. Panic. He laid me on my bed and tucked me in. He sidled up behind me and draped an arm around my chest.

I’m gonna call in sick for tomorrow.

Don’t do that.

Why?

Because if someone dies the world keeps goin’. That means you’ll be behind and a loser.

That’s stupid, Jessica.

Tell you what. I’ll try my hardest to die on a weekend so you can cry on your day off. Come Monday, you better be on top of your shit.

I’m wondering if I should write a will. I own nothing of value. Perhaps a letter to the people who mattered most to me will suffice.

To those who know me and read my blog, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk to me about this matter. I’ll get it checked out soon.

 

 

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