Adieu

It'll Pass (Michayla)

It'll pass.

It'll pass.

It'll pass.

Those two, simple words had become a common mantra as of late for Michayla Macy. Damn near every night, going on three years now, she found herself reciting the phrase, the syllables passing through cracked lips. The heat flashes that roused her from her restless sleep, the churning of what little food she was able to swallow down in the pit of her belly, the aching pain of her joints and muscles as they strained against one another. These symptoms were all too familiar to Mickey. When the doctor signed the slip of paper that bound you to a fate that consisted of a never-ending battle with leukemia, these nightly rituals were just a few of the many trials you had to face. But, that didn't make the agony any easier to bear.

Willing her tired eyes open, Michayla's cloudy brown irises caught and held the slowly revolving fan blade. The way it spun rhythmically, always going and never stopping, brought Mickey both unease and comfort. It steadied her mind and helped her brace for the sudden impact of heaving and tightness that began to root deep in her gut but it also motivated her dinner to make its appearance sooner rather than later. Bringing her trembling fingers to brush against her forehead, Michayla wiped away the sweat that had collected along her brow. Her entire body was covered in a noticeable sheen of perspiration, the moisture making her pajamas cling to her. Mickey tried her best to ease her aching body into a sitting position, her eyes now focusing on the clock that sat on her bedside table.

"3:35. Right on time."

Bringing her legs from the tangled mess of sheets and sweat, Michayla slowly erected her body into a standing position, one arm going to wrap itself securely around her middle as the other ran through her sticky, dark hair. Pushing her sore limbs forward, trying her best to ignore the ridiculous amount of effort even that seemed to take, she made her way into the bathroom. As soon as she was past the threshold, Mickey's hands groped hurriedly in the dark in an attempt to find the light switch. Her dinner from the night before had a date with the toilet bowl, and she doubted that her stomach was going to let her skip out on the momentous occasion, even if for a single night.

Hearing the buzz of the filament ignite above her head, the sick woman stumbled forward until her quaking arms met with the cool porcelain of the toilet. It didn't matter how many nights she sat curled up on the bathroom floor, stomach empty yet still pushing for release. It never got easier and anyone who said it did was full of shit. Not once did she find herself huddled in this familiar position, body drenched in sweat and trembling from cold chills, and think to herself, 'Huh, that wasn't so bad. I could get used to this!' No. Instead, if anything, with each dry heave and strain to empty her gut, Michayla was only reminded how hard it was to push herself to get out of bed each morning and at least try to live.

After a few more well-placed lurches, Michayla could finally feel her stomach beginning to settle, it's rampage on her body coming to an end for the evening. Swiping her fingers across her swollen lips, Mickey tried to swallow past the salty taste that still lingered at the back of her throat as she pulled herself up off of the floor and into an upright position. Luckily, she had managed to avoid making a mess of her clothes. At least she could wait until daybreak before dragging herself into the shower. Michayla stretched forward and flushed the contents of her dinner down the drain as she sidestepped to the sink. She may have been able to talk herself out of a shower, but the obvious film of sickness that clung to her tongue and teeth were too much to ignore. Reaching for the corner of her medicine cabinet, Mickey's eyes caught a glimpse of something peculiar in its reflection. She paused then to peek over her shoulder. All that stood to her back was the familiar backdrop of her bathroom and the hallway that led to her bedroom. Michayla turned her attention back to the cabinet then, her thoughts darting this way and that as she proceeded to brush away the grime. While she was sure it was a simple hallucination or trick of the light, Mickey couldn't help but wonder if perhaps she had actually seen something. Not just something, but a very clear outline of a figure. She gripped the sink tightly as she bent forward to spit, her eyes fluttering shut as she whispered under her breath, "You're seeing things, Mickey. It's late, you're sick. You're seeing things."