Page 1 of Hush, Little Baby

1

Charlie

“Everything’s negative. No need for a follow-up,” the doctor tells me.

Again.

Over a message in my chart.

I stare at my phone screen for what seems like the thousandth time, both numb to those seven words and completely and utterly shattered by them.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.

Give up?

Maybe I should.

A tear rolls down my cheek, burning a little river of grief into my skin. Grief for what, Charlie? Not having a terrible incurable disease?

No…

It’s hard to explain.

But when you’ve been deteriorating every year for the past decade of your life, with nothing to help…

You’d rather have a terrible incurable disease with answers and treatments than a wave of a hand, shooing you away.

This had been my last chance.

I’m turning twenty-six next week. And instead of being excited, the thought of my birthday this year fills me with unimaginable dread. Why? Not even because I don’t have any friends to celebrate with, or any money to go on a fun trip with, or… or anything.

Those are my norms. They’ve never stopped me from enjoying my birthdays in the past. No. It’s because I live in the grand ole’ U.S. of A., and I stop being covered by my parents’ health insurance once I hit the big two-six.

I’m already in debt just from living in my apartment—which, sometimes, I wish the cockroaches had to pay rent, too. Then maybe I could swing for groceries I could use to make actual meals with, not just microwaveable dinners and over-processed mini muffins.

I press my thumb harder into the screen like it might change the words if I just try enough.

It doesn’t.

It never does.

A shaky breath slips out of me, and I drag my sleeve across my face, smearing the tear away before it can fall onto my shirt. Not that it matters. This is one of the older ones anyway, stretched out at the collar and soft in that worn-down way that means it’s been washed too many times and still never quite feels clean.

My chest hurts. Not the sharp, stabbing kind of pain, but that constant aching, heavy pressure like someone set a weight on me and forgot to take it off.

“Okay,” I whisper to myself, even though there’s no one here to hear it. “It’ll be okay.”

It doesn’t feel okay.

It feels like a door just slammed shut in my face, and I’m standing on the wrong side of it with no idea how to get back in.

I look around my apartment, really look at it, like I haven’t in a while. The flickering kitchen light, the stack of unopened mail on the counter, the corner where the wall’s peeling just enough that I’ve started picking at it when I can’t sleep, the roach poop that I’m sure is doing wonders for my lungs.

This place isn’t meant for living.

It’s just… where I exist.

Another wave of exhaustion rolls through me, sudden and overwhelming enough that my knees wobble a little. I grab the edge of the counter, breathing through it, waiting for my body to decide it’s done punishing me for… whatever I did this time. Standing too long? Not eating enough? Eating the wrong thing?