Turning Dark

Chapter One

Hey, lovelies. Wassup. Comment. Give food to a random hobo. (Tell me if you actually did that; it'd be cool.)

Ch. 1

I sighed through gritted teeth. Another blood draw. Really, I thought it was pointless--three sticks later, and still, no blood would flow into the little vial that would hold it. We'd been trying at it for three days now, as the sickening nausea pressed on until I threw up all the contents of my stomach if I went down the stairs too fast or messy, the migraines that made me scream in the middle of the night, tingling persisting from my fingers and toes and up past my elbows and knees, the periodical black outs. 

To say mom was worried was an understatement. Our house was not cleaned by my mother, but my twelve-year-old sister, Marcine. Mom was the one who worked over the stove all day, making flavorless, scentless food for me, cooking up Kid Cuisine and Banquet meals for Marcine last-minute. My diet had become mostly bread and water, ginger ale and 7-Up if I wanted something else, and an apple and broccoli was all I was allowed. I was allotted sleep, the stereo on low, and my phone. No calls, only texts. No ringer. 

To say it was annoying was an understatement.

"Ow," I stated flatly. "Ow."

The nurse with the needle ignored me, poking around in the inside of my elbow, looking for a vein. My foot kicked out and caught her childishly in the shin. She grimaced and took out the little needle. Those things are tiny, but you don't realize that it hurts like a bitch to be bruised from the inside out until it happens to you.

"It's just not happening today, have her back tomorrow," The nurse says to my mom. Asshole. I hate it when the nurses don't talk to me, but my mom--sure, she's capable, but I'm not four. Jeez. 

I exhale angrily, but they both ignore me.

The front desk woman hands me a bandage on my way out. She's one of the nicest ones in the hospital. I tape it down over my bruised right inner elbow, the part that's bleeding the heaviest. Fun fact: if they don't get blood immediately, they try like five other places on your arms, then your fingertips, which hurts like Hell.

Yeah, I'm unlucky enough to know this.

"I can't wait 'till you get back to school," Mom expelled. Her hair was darker than mine, a brown that faded into copper a little at the bottom. It was in a messy bun, 'cause she didn't wanna do anything with it. She brushed it sometimes, painfully, but rarely. "It's such a hassle telling you I'm leaving every-time I want a cigarette or a shower."

A burst of anger streaked across my brain, and I wrinkled my nose. I was always quick to anger.  "Mom, I'm sick." I say blankly, willing her not to be as dense and unempathetic as she's being. "Nobody knows what's wrong with me."

"Yes, but they will. Then you can go back to school." 

"But they haven't yet--" Mom gave me the shut up look. As if I'm stupid.

"Marcella, honey--"

"Can I just have, like, some soup or something. For dinner," My tone was thick, clogged-sounding, as if I was about to cry, though there was no burning at the back of my eyes, and the sting of Rage Tears that I did feel was not enough to overpower the dam behind my eyes. 

"C'mon, Marcie." Mom said. She knew I withdrew when I was fuming. "Marcella. . . . " She groaned after a minute. 

I didn't answer. I didn't feel like talking. When she parked the car, I threw open the door, and managed to get inside the house before dizziness overcame me and stopped dead and swayed against the wall. A hand touched my arm.