Theirs, Hers, No one's fault—

I was still slumped against the slippery floor. Crying that the innocuous water that was starting to thinly coat the porcelain floor tiles is the thing that will kill me. Maybe turning off the sink overhead would have been a bright idea, but I had been feeling dumb way before the blistering headache from hell started.

A renewed wave of sadness rushed over me, like the water gushing over the granite counter tops and dripping down our scratched cupboards. This awful summer could, in fact, get worse. I squeezed my eyes shut to minimize the spinning room, thinking back to summers ago with Aliana when the only dizziness came from twisting on the swing set or twirling with our hands clasped until one or both of us fell. The microwave said it was 22:08, meaning my parents would be home soon. Fiji, our ancient schnauzer, had already abandoned me and the kitchen after the first five minutes of sobbing. Knowing his presence wasn’t helping, he got out of Dodge. Part of me didn’t care and felt too weak to even stand up, but another part of me couldn't bear the idea that my parents would spend my final hours upset or worse, pitying me even more. I wonder if the Lorenzo’s summer soiree, which I was too sick for, was fun? My parents, namely my dad, already didn’t believe me, citing all the illnesses or allergies that have precluded me over the years. Admittedly, while some were psychosomatic, this was definitely different. I could feel the doom brewing.

I sighed and pulled myself up for what felt like–and was–minutes. Not knowing the exact mechanics of this sort of thing, I didn’t want to cause a head rush. It had been a miracle, from what I've researched, that I had even made it to day 11. I have been in constant agony that anything could speed up the process, but I couldn’t put it off too much longer, because no one lived past 12 days.

I had always felt special growing up. Sure, while I might be considered average in the looks department–being a mixed black girl in an all white town when you were no one's type would take your confidence like that– I knew deep down that Aliana and I would conquer the world as lawyers or something impressive that we never finalized but could do together. Achieving our childhood goals of grandeur was everything to us. However, despite how hard I worked in school, the exhausting amounts of clubs I led. My 4.0 GPA that never dipped. All the time playing varsity basketball I sacrificed. The praise I got from my teachers and even, begrudgingly, my parents, didn’t make me special enough to survive this when only 1% have.

Percentages have been my obsession in recent months. In addition to not being capable of beating this parasite, I was stuck in a loop. 19% of these kids are more deserving than me. 48% and still a no, what a moron. 8% what gave you the confidence? 32% I will never accomplish anything and will probably–now certainly–die alone. I prided myself on a few things, but not being stupid was one of them. I was just blinded by rage, the same way I am blinded now by a splintering headache. The paper towel in my hand slowly disintegrates as I hastily–as quickly as a dying girl can–mop the water off the floor to avoid a parental confrontation that would probably end my life sooner than the 9 hours I may have left. I don’t know why making it to this final day is so important to me…Well, I do know why, because then that shows, amongst the rare people who are affected by this, I can still be a standout. I am, in fact, special in a warped way. Perhaps that judgmental nagging voice that has told me I am useless and pathetic since May–and periodically for the last two years–will finally give me the peace to die with dignity.

Before my prognosis, I would love to say I had been having the summer I had long dreamt of. The freedom from high school and a seamless transition into college had been meticulously planned since before 7th grade. In reality–I hate it there–I had been wallowing in self-pity. It was a very consistent routine. I would wake up at 11ish in my childhood bedroom, which I was more than ready to move out of. I want to cry, but don’t–a major and recent improvement. I would then tell myself I need to: read, master a new language, learn how to be artistic, exercise, and then create or work on something to make me a millionaire, and my richness would bring me reverence and be a proverbial slap in the face to the people who rejected me. The only thing that halted any progress was the dread and extreme tiredness I felt. Having no energy caused me to lose motivation. I had this recurring image of a once beautiful but now oxidized and scratched kiddie wagon, sitting on top of a hill. It had worked hard to get up there. Even though the handle now squeaked, it was just a decoration; no one had pulled the wagon up to the top of the summit. For a while, it had started to slowly inch forward, teetering on descent. However, it had always been staunch and refused to budge despite the wind that worked against it. But then it lost the energy to resist and rolled down the hill. The further it fell, the faster it went, and all movement was downward. Knowing how far it was from the top made the rusty, ugly thing exhausted. The wagon just wanted to remain trash and forgotten, in the dark depths of obscurity at the base of the hill. My 3am analogies I concoct when my phone bores me to tears were not exactly poignant, but a part of my aforementioned summer routine.

When feeling bad for myself got as stale as the air in my room I hadn't left for days, I felt as if the wagon would shift back onto its wheels and start its journey forward, or at least toward a less intimidating hill. But then the irresistible pull to social media would ensnare me. A new post of Aliana with her glamorous friends with promising futures would pop up. Or a TikTok, in her once beloved but now obnoxious voice, would announce “get ready with me” for this party or this date, or this entire life I’m living without the deadweight formally known as my pitiful best friend. I couldn't handle the finality that came with blocking her accounts. Seeing Aliana doing so well, moving on in all the ways I had been left behind and mocked by statistics; growing without me as a beautiful flower, while I felt like a plucked and shriveling bud, left me stuck marinating in my humiliation.

I would dare to say, everything, my biggest life mistakes, and now even death, is her fault. Moving school districts for high school was out of her control and understandable. Making new friends, just because I hadn’t been successful in this field–I felt like everyone in my life tolerated me rather than liked me. From the honor societies I helped lead to the teams I played for, when I spoke, people looked at me with judgment or disgust, like I hatched a third eye mid-conversation. Regardless, I support making friends and expanding one's social circle. Even when we started to talk less in our sophomore year, it hurt, but I never let her see how much, as it wasn’t fair to be jealous. Then promises to call at night and talk resulted in me changing my schedule to accommodate her, while she just “forgot.” Hangouts between the two of us were incorporated into her larger groups of friends, where no one would speak to me. Eventually, I stopped being invited altogether. My texts went unanswered. Her parties seemed to always be at capacity. On the rare occasion we did hang out, she seemed disinterested and resentful, as if I was keeping her from having fun with her true friends. Aliana acted as though she forgot our inside jokes from childhood. The only stories she loved to regale were times I got in trouble or was embarrassed. The friendship, like my future, was a lost cause. She felt as though everything good I had came from her, and was tired of having to “drag me with her” because it was a losing battle. Going into our senior year of high school, the dying cord was officially severed, and the kiddie wagon's fall had begun. I had let her betrayal become the fixation of my life, as I questioned why I had no one left I cared about around me.

My every action was consumed by dread and second-guessing all the ways I could be perceived and despised. It was paralyzing. Only in defiance did I apply to no safety school. My guidance counselor sent emails home, warning my parents to dissuade me and make more practical choices, but like everything my parents did, it was half-hearted and unsuccessful. I purposefully only applied to the same places as Aliana. Overly confident that I would have my pick. I didn’t even want to go to the same college as her, but I wanted the ammunition to brag about all of my options just the same. A very probable outcome, but one I hadn’t expected, came when I was outright rejected or waitlisted from every school, and Aliana got into the college we used to fantasize about. Failing to get off any waitlist, my future–or lack thereof–was cemented.

I heard my dad's slippers shuffle across our faux wood floors before I saw them. My parents giggled through the dining room on their way to the kitchen. The counter and floors were now dry. I was able to push the empty towel roll and all of the soggy paper to the bottom of the trash, covering it with the hot pocket box and paper plate from my dinner just in time. I briefly looked over at my parents; my mom’s sparkly taffeta dress looked hideous under our fluorescent bulbs, and her lipstick was discolored. My dad wore the salmon button-up that washed him out, and worse yet, he had clearly been dancing, as evidenced by the darker blotches of pink along his back. Yet, they were smiling with arms wrapped tightly around each other. Immersed in their own world, maybe in the middle of a joke or just high off the feeling that they have someone who they truly loved and felt secure with. I shifted past them before they could ask me what I’d been up to all day. They leave for work long before I snake out of bed. Replying “nothing” and letting the silence stretch with all the things that go unsaid has also become trite.

“Good night!” My mom sarcastically called after me. My manners were inexcusable since I didn’t greet them.

I couldn’t clearly hear the rest of their conversation from the stairs, but I caught pieces like “dramatic” and “stuck.” Probably some of the most despised words I have thought about myself.

As I tried to steel myself for my death, I wondered how long my parents would be sad. I was torn between hoping they would move on with their lives, and at the same time being resentful that I could very clearly picture them moving on with their lives unaffected. I closed my room door tightly behind me. The tears threatened to fall again, and holding them back did not help my burning headache. Flashes of the small inflatable pool my aunt had filled up and I dramatically sank into 11 days ago flashed in my mind. Why hadn’t I plugged my nose before attempting to be angsty and sink to the bottom like the way I’ve seen people do in movies? If I had, my life would have been saved. No parasite would have me counting down my last hours. A quick glance at my wall clock confirmed it was 23:02. Midnight would mark the final day, and I would be lucky to make it a few more hours to exactly when I got in that damn wading puddle. A certain heat rushed over me. Was this it? I waited, shallowly breathing in anticipation. Instead, all I felt was anger. Without much thought, I unburied the block notepad from my desk and scooped up a Ballpoint pen from the dusty corner of my floor. Like my hand had a healthy mind of its own, it started to list everything. All of the ways I had been hurt these last few years were scribbled before me. How unbearable all the pressure I had put on myself to be different from my parents had been. Subsequently, how strained and resentful our relationship was. I devised a plan forward that seemed so impossible two weeks ago, detailing the steps I could take to move past my school rejections. As the sentence get a job was accompanied by a Junior College with a program that automatically ensured students' admission into certain reputable four-year colleges, the tears mindlessly leaked down my face. I had been letting all of the sorrow I felt keep me from living. Now I was out of time. I clutched the pad to my chest to stifle a sob, and my eyes lingered on my curtains. My attempt at aquatic young adult melancholy failed horribly, but with nothing to lose, I was willing to try another cliche. I had, afterall, been feeling dumb lately.

I bit the end of my pen, sitting comfortably outside on our shingled roof. My stomach was uneasy from the height, and had not recovered from the drop it felt when I first started to shimmy out my window. Now that I had made it, I admired our yellowing, overgrown yard and neighborhood before me with a bird's-eye view. My list, while cathartic, still felt incomplete. I hadn’t even wanted to utter her name, much less inscribe it on the last thing I will ever write, but I realized I needed to. In big blocky letters, a simple line: I regret letting Aliana make me feel like my life was a lost cause. Looking at a simple, tangible list illuminated by a street light of what I accomplished, my goals, dreams, character, all things a college board overlooked, I saw how much I had to live for. I lay back on the shingles with my knees angled upwards so I wouldn’t slide off. The next thing I heard after my eyes got heavy was birds. When I remembered where I was and gathered my bearings, the sky was starting to brighten. Officially onto my 12th day. Despite the awkward position and stiff neck from a wayward tile, it was the best sleep I’ve had in my life. My headache was still lingering, but more bearable; my eyes could see a bit more clearly without squinting and felt less sensitive. I was able to appreciate the swirls of muted orange and soft pinks behind the rising sun that seemed close enough to touch. These next few hours would reveal everything, but maybe despite what is said or expected, I will be a part of the 1% who make it.