Until the Last Breath

“You have never finished a drink at this bar, Shannon Hales. Someone must’ve made you a little hot and thirsty, huh?” Quincy smirked.

“Oh, please. I just really needed one.” I wave him off.

“That’s what you say. Girl, you know you can’t deny that man. He already has you wrapped around his finger.”

“He does not.” I fiddled with the edge of a black napkin.

I looked up as Quincy placed his elbows on the countertop, bringing his face closer to me. “I hear that once he has you, there is no way you can stop thinking about him. I hear that man is a god in the bedroom. By the end of it you’ll be worshipping him.” He fanned himself with exaggeration. “Too bad he isn’t into fine men like me.” Quincy lifted his hand and pretended to flip invisible hair over his shoulder as he turned for the drinks. I giggled as he twisted his eyebrow piercing and pursed his lips. “Take it from him, Shannon. Take it and never let it go! You know you want to!” His outburst caused a few of the waitresses to look our way with frowns. I avoided their eyes, giving him a shut up before I kill you look.

It was close to closing now and since the night was slow, I knew Eugene would send me home. As I cleaned the bar counter, the door of the employee lounge swung open and out walked Max. As he walked out, my smile completely faded.

His arm was wrapped around Brenda’s shoulders and he had her way too close to his body for my liking. His eyes flickered over to mine, only briefly, and then he looked down at Brenda who was going on about something I’m sure was irrelevant.

What the hell? Was he doing this on purpose? Trying to make me jealous so that I could come running to him?

Well, fuck that. He had me all wrong. I wasn’t that type of girl. I didn’t go running to any man. I had dignity and sometimes a little too much pride.

I wasn’t Brenda, the redhead who was a pro at giving blowjobs in the men’s bathroom. I deserved patience and respect, and that damn sure wasn’t what Max was willing to give me.

Quincy shook his head with a hand on his hip, a look of pure disgust on his face as he watched them walk by. “You know what,” he mumbled as they passed by and Max completely disregarded me, “I take what I said back. Don’t take shit from him. Make his player-ass work for what you’ve got.”

FIVE

My head spins, my body going through the same routine it does every couple of mornings.

Aching bones.

Fatigue.

Breathlessness.

Sometimes the OPX treatments help me forget where I am, until I allow myself a chance to remember. In a hospital, on a wing full of other sick patients.

It’s depressing as hell, waking up to a plain white ceiling or hearing someone cough so hard it seems their lung might pop.

I groan, forgetting just how much of a pain in the ass it is to wake up and get comfortable.

My ass is numb, my fingers too. The IV in my arm digs deeper but I turn a bit, relaxing it.

Yesterday’s round of OPX isn’t working in my favor. It’s pointless anyway. The only reason I’ve continued it is because John wants me doing everything I can to survive, even if that means sitting for almost an hour while I allow the OPX to swim through my veins, then allowing the unbearable body aches and skull-splitting headaches to set in. It makes him feel better, so be it.

I already know it’s too late. The OPX isn’t working like it should and soon the doctors will stop wasting it and save it for someone that might actually be saved.

After all, this medicine is expensive, mainly because Onyx Pleura, the disease I carry, is rare and not much of the OPX has to be made to cure it.

I hate the disease.

It’s destroying me. It’s caused me to lose a lot of weight and for my hair to shed—so much to the point that Tessa had to take me to cut it a few months ago.

My hair has grown back some, but it is very thin and brittle. I’ve lost some color to my umber skin, my lips are always dry, and I can’t forget to mention the permanent dark circles around my eyes.

Onyx Pleura Disorder.

It is definitely not my best friend, yet it’s been with me every day since the age of twenty-three. Never have I touched a cigarette. I may have smoked some weed here and there, but that surely isn’t the cause of the diagnosis.

They say, for people with this disease, that it is formed in our lungs when we are born, but it is so rare that doctors don’t check unless there are symptoms of it when you’re a child.