Adieu

What It Feels Like to Live (Michayla)

Mickey simply folded her hands beneath her chin and gave a nonchalant shrug. "Oh, I have plenty of questions. I'm just unsure of which I actually want an answer to." She would pause for a moment then, closing her eyes and simply letting herself sit in the quiet before the real conversation got underway. Her life had taken so many differentiating paths in the last ten years. Between losing a parent, both accepting and being dismissed from a position that she had dreamed of for most of her life to now wondering how much longer the pharmacy's worth of medications she was required to take would actually do their job and keep her alive. Looking down at the pile of pills that she still had yet to take, Michayla could feel her brow creased as she wondered if there was truly any point. For the last few months, it had felt less about trying to combat cancer and more about making the transition into death as painless and seamless as possible. Mickey would then reach down and pick up one of the larger pills, something that was supposed to help her anxiety as well as insomnia.

"Is there even a point to any of this?" though she had admittedly asked this out loud more to herself, Mickey still wondered as to rather or not he could give her a cemented answer. Turning her attention to him then, she held the pill out towards him and rephrased her inquiry, "Will taking this ridiculous amount of medication actually do anything to slow down the clock? I'd like to think that we are, in some way shape or form, the shepherds of our own fates but now I'm beginning to wonder if that sentiment holds any truth." Shaking her head then and scooping up the handful of pills, Michayla quickly popped them into her mouth before reaching for and tipping back the water he had laid out for her. Being sure they had all safely made their way down her esophagus, Mickey then set the water down but continued to tap a singular nail against its side. "As I'm sure you know, I've come to terms with my mortality. I know my days are numbered and there's not much I can do about it. I was content with spending whatever time I had left just existing and that was when I still thought I had at least some semblance of a chance." She would turn her attention fully to Dezmond then, her eyes finding and holding his. "Now, by some absolutely ridiculous chance, I have you here. A miracle in and of itself. How backward is it, that now that I have actual proof that miracles do happen, that I'm just ready to stop fighting against the inevitable?"

Michayla could only imagine how mad she must've sounded. In front of her sat her very literal guardian angel, someone who she was now able to see, talk to, touch, and instead of taking that as a queue to continue pushing forward, she was taking it as a sign to simply let things be. Laughing some under her breath, Mickey simply shook her head and brought her hand forward, fingers running over the lip of her glass as she continued. "I've spent these last few months just simply letting the days come and go. I guess I was just waiting around for the phone call that said, 'Good news, Ms. Macy, you're in remission!' but the more time that passes, the less sure I am that it's even coming." She could hear the low rumble of the kettle as it began to boil on the stove, the intensity in which the pitch proceeded to heighten being completely ignored by Mickey. Instead, she would turn her body to face Dezmond, her small hands reaching for and taking his larger ones between them. With a firm squeeze and a resolve that he would hear not only in her voice, but that burned behind her eyes, she would continue by saying, "I was never the type of person to believe in signs. But between having you here with me, revisiting moments with my family that I haven't thought of in years, and the feeling that something is pushing me back into music again, I'd be more of a fool to not acknowledge that there's been some kind of intervention. Rather it's all purely by chance and just in my head or if there really is some kind of shift in the cosmos, I don't care. All I know is that I'm tired of just sitting around, waiting to die, hoping for something that may never happen. I may have a set date. I may not. If I don't get off of my ass and make something of whatever time I do have left, I'll regret it and I know it." Inhaling deeply to not only catch her breath but to quickly collect her thoughts, she'd conclude by asking plainly, "Dezmond, I know your duty is to usher my spirit to the afterlife when that time comes. What I'm asking you is that, for whatever time I have left, would you help me try and remember what it feels like to live?"