BORROWED [Watty Awards Finalist/NEWLY EDITED!]

Chapter Two

   |Happy Doomsday|

Four days remain, some odd hours, minutes calculating down to seconds. I'm starting to lose count now. It's pointless to keep track of the inevitable. Becoming a seventeen year old is a nightmare set in reality.

The siren blasts inside my desert town, signaling the beginning of a new work day. Not for me, though. I'm just a high school graduate, ready to be thrust into adulthood. After a restless night and a bout of the stomach flu ( or nerves), I roll over to see the time. The digital clock's red, block-shaped numbers mesmerize me. The countdown for my birthday reverberates inside my head. Each hour that passes is becoming unbearable.

Sitting up, I swing my legs over my bed and rush to my vanity. I brush back my tangled mess of hair, staring at my reflection. The coloring of my skin is ashen, rather than its usual ivory tint. My chest tightens, my heart races; a common, nervous feeling overwhelms me.

"It's happening again!" Resting my hands on top of my head, I try to alleviate the dizziness by deeply inhaling and exhaling through pursed lips.

Footsteps hurry down the hallway, approaching outside my bedroom door. It swings open, banging against the wall. Mom appears. She leans onto the frame trying to catch her breath. Her cheeks are rosy with perspiration settling over her manicured brows.

"What's wrong? I've just got in from my jog," she says breathlessly.

She is comely, even after a workout. Her chestnut brown hair is pulled back away from her thin neck into a high ponytail. I always have to look away from her hazel eyes. They speak volumes, showing me how much she wants to care for me. "My vision went blurry - " I pause to swallow the hitch in my throat, "-and my heart is beating weird."

She frowns, stepping inside my room. Walking up behind me, she grips my shoulders, massaging them. I've noticed she does this a lot when she tries to connect with me. I wish she would get the hint that it only makes me uncomfortable, that it makes me want to run to the opposite side of the bedroom.

"You're going to be fine." Her calm voice washes over me.

Goose bumps trail at the nape of my neck. None of this feels right, I think, trailing my fingers over the tiny bumps scattering over my flesh, making them disappear beneath my touch.

"I will get your medication, okay?" Her hand tucks a long strand of brunette hair behind my ear. A simple touch of her finger makes me flinch. Unprompted, I pull away.

"Hurry," I say. Hurry back. I'm afraid.

She turns on the heel of her shoe, leaving my bedroom. I watch her walk away while my heart continues to beat in its unusual pattern. The dizzy feeling from earlier intensifies. I take a few deep breaths.

Just breathe, I tell myself. Relax, it's only anxiety. You won't die.

Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I always see something missing. Right here, in my own blue eyes. These eyes, the same eyes that my mom tells me from time to time, how people would stop on the street, quietly admiring them when I was an infant. They're like a vast ocean with miles of open water. Looking into them, I feel lost. Did those people get lost, too? There's this overwhelming sensation of isolation. I blink rapidly, if I don't, I might drown in them if I keep staring into their abyss.

Maybe it wouldn't feel this way if I remembered my dad. He's a mystery. I always wonder if I take after him. Did he have the same brown hair? Were his eyes large and round, too? Mom won't talk about him. She doesn't even keep pictures of him here at home. All I know is that he died from Huntington's disease, which he developed at age thirty. Ten years later, it took his life. Just six months before I was born.