The Guilt Trip [slow updates]

[17] Pathetic Is As Pathetic Does

"That movie is SO. CUTE!!!" Skipper squealed, scrunching up her nose. The credits were rolling now, and Wade was slumped against the bed. He looked very serene, yet an indecipherable fire was illuminating his half-closed eyes. Charles lay sleeping lazily at Wade's side, long snout resting in the guy's lap as though the creature was really some type of strange dog.

   Wade stroked Charles' snout absently, having fallen into a stupor of sorts in the process of watching the movie. He hardly heard Skipper ask if he'd like to watch another; merely nodded and watched the screen through glazed eyes.

   About halfway through the video, Skipper paused it and turned to Wade. "Let's play Truth or Dare."

   "What?" Shaking his head to clear it, he glanced at her as the words sank in. "No. I'm not playing that game."

   "C'mon, please? I forgot how boring this movie is."

   Wade raised an eyebrow. He thought boring was just fine. He was exhausted, and honestly would be more than happy to just go to his own room and sleep.

   Skipper happily awaited his response, so sure he'd cave and let her have her way. Her expression fell as he got up, shaking his head. "No. I'm going to bed. Enjoy your movies."

   "But–but I want you to watch them with me."

   "Nah. I'm exhausted."

  "Please? I could die tonight and you'l live in regret of not watching movies with me or playing games at my request."

   He rolled his eyes. "Nice try. Guilt tripping won't work on me. Have fun being alone, Tomato Face. Wake me up when you're a ghost." And rousing his anteater, he left. Skipper stared at the door as it fell shut, mixed feelings churning inside her. She knew she was trying to guilt him, and she knew couldn't make him stay, but she didn't want to be alone right now. Being alone was something she was starting to fear as her numbered days loomed overhead like a formidable disaster.

   Dying alone was becoming her worst fear, because almost nobody would know about her passing. Nobody would miss her, because nobody cared.

   Picking up her phone, she blinked back tears and opened her Instagram. Scrolled through comments that would normally make her feel good and confident. Instead, she only saw them as shallow. They only cared about where she got her clothes. What makeup brand she was using. What restaurants she frequented. What resort she was staying in.

   They cared only for her influence, and not for her wellbeing. All the ily, feel better soon! and cancer sux messages would normally melt her heart, now she viewed them as fake and annoying.

   What was it like to have friends who asked about your health before they noticed the clothes you wore? Friends who would stick with you just because, regardless what you were going through?

   She wished she knew. She didn't even have a stereotypical best friend like so many others do in the world. When the cancer came back for round two, everyone left. They were too worn out from round one. Now it was round three, and here she was traveling the world with some Uber guy who was nice enough in his own right but still a pain in the butt.

    What was she thinking? She should have stayed back home and tried to undergo treatment again. After all, sometimes the odds favored people.

   But deep down, she knew it wouldn't have made a difference. With a shaky sigh, she tossed her phone across the room; it landed in her suitcase with a dull thump. She echoed it, dropping her head against the mattress. Contact with the fabric caused her sunburn to hurt worse, and she squeezed back tears. Her mind was alight with dizzying thoughts, and the only thing keeping her from breaking down was the fact that she still had so much to be grateful for. She had to stay positive, she had to think happy. She had to be the swan, graceful above while struggling underneath the water.

   Slowly, she got up off the bed and made way to the suitcase. She pulled out the travel journal and the polaroids, abandoning her phone to the soft repose of her clothes. Sitting on the floor, she laid out the photos and hugged her legs to her chest, much as her skin protested. Sniffling, looking over the images, she recalled all the fun she'd had so far. Wade had a dark and different sense of humor, yes, but in all honesty he hadn't made the trip as miserable as she'd expected him to. He could be a gentleman sometimes, when he remembered he was capable. And Charles was kind of cute, in the way only an anteater can be.

   Dragging her arm beneath her leaking eyes, lip quivering, she wondered why she was even trying to be strong right now. She had approximately 11 months left. She didn't want to spend them crying. May as well let the tears go now, right? Part of her wanted to. Part of her strongly desired to succumb to apparent weakness.

   The part of her that had taken precedent for the entire duration of her illness, however, begged her to rally through. To be strong. Cry a little, but spare the tears because she was a survivor and she was strong. The doctors might have deemed her a lost cause, but that didn't mean she was. They didn't know if miracles could happen.

   Of course, she'd given up hoping for a miracle and that's why she was here now. On the floor in a resort in Mexico, bawling her eyes out over a bunch of stupid Polaroids.

   Pathetic.

   A soft tap resounded on the door and she lifted her head, desperately trying to rid her face of the salty liquid her eyes had produced. Wade peeked in, eyebrows raised, looking more awake than he had moments ago. It was also quite obvious he was trying to ignore the fact that she was crying.

   "They're having a bonfire. Wanna come?"