I nod off again, falling asleep in a heartbeat and staying that way for just as long before I bolt awake again. Frustrated, I pad across the chilling tile floor, fill up a cup with water from the sink in the bathroom, and splash the cold liquid into my face.
I watch in the mirror as the water trails down my face, wondering if I’ll look something like this when Bree dies.
Would she want me to cry for her, for me to be miserable on her behalf? No. That’s not like Bree at all. I’ll be crying anyway, though; there’s no helping that. Who else will cry for her, besides me? Her parents will be weeping—that’s a given—but will anyone else care enough to shed a tear?
“Get it together, Joey,” I whisper to my reflection
Immediately I feel like slamming my head against the wall. I'm talking to myself. That’s can't be a good sign. I’ve been awake too long.
Sighing, I walk back to the chair and resume my position at Bree’s bedside. Hoping the little wake-up will keep me conscious for at least a while, I continue where I left off.
YOU ARE READING
The Fighter
Short StoryI wish I could say Bree was strong. “She’s a fighter,” the doctors say. “She can beat this.” But I know better. They just say these things so that we don’t give up on her, to let us hope she has a chance. In reality, she never did. ~Taken from The...
