The Other One

Margo’s POV

*beep beep beep*

I reach for the snooze for the third time this morning. To say I’m not excited for the day is an understatement. Dread fills me as I lie in my bed staring at the eggshell white ceiling.

*bang bang*

“ Turn that dang alarm off already, Margo! I’m sick of hearing it! “ Drew screams from the other side of my bedroom door, fists pounding on the oak.

“ Well, I’m sick of hearing you grunting and yelling ‘ Who’s your daddy?’ when you’re doing curls every night! “ I spew back at him.

Silence.

The idiot didn’t think about sound traveling both directions.

I’ve won this round by the vibration of his heavy feet retreating back to his musty lair.

“ Happy Birthday to you, too, jerk. “, I whisper.

We may be twins, but we couldn’t be more different. His jet black hair, cut in a boy band style, is a stark contrast to my long, platinum, almost white, locks. My pale skin looks like milk next to his tan muscles. I could almost qualify to be a horse jockey, while he never had to be checked for height requirements to ride the roller coasters.

The only thing we have in common is our crystal blue eyes that look like a cenote you find in Mexico. He’s the muscle, I’m the brains. And this interaction helps solidify that.

Blowing out all the air I have in my lungs, I’m working up the nerve to begin the day.

My bed feels like clouds that are holding all my dreams inside. I’m afraid the slightest movement will push them out onto the floor to be trampled by my own feet. Here I can stay in a world with no pain.

No regrets.

And no birthdays.

My arms are heavy. My legs feel unstable. I try to raise my head, but the weight of all my thoughts feels like a rock sinking to the bottom of the ocean.

I know I’m not the only person to feel this way. But the worst thing that has ever happened to someone is the worst thing that's ever happened to someone.

Slithering out of the comfort of my bed, I stumble to my computer to check my Discord.

Kai: “ Happy Birthday, Z.P.!! “

FreeHeadshot: “ HBD, Z.P. Nice kill last night. “

AuraKnight:“ Yo HBD 0. Big plans today? “

ZeroPulse is my gamer tag. How poetic that this is what I chose four years ago.

I wonder if I still would have chosen it had I known how my life would turn out?

But I know the answer.

Yes.

Because I’m morbid like that.

Gaming has been my escape from all of this. What started as a hobby became a world I could run to. A place where I could be whoever I wanted. No one in this world knows I’m sick. And I want to keep it that way. All they know is that I’m a player with a kill count that others dream of.

I type:

“ Thanks, don’t expect me to carry you guys tonight. “ in response.

The words come easily, even if they don’t capture what I mean. Sarcasm fills every word of my reply, but it still means a lot that people I've never met care more about me than any "friend" I had in high school.

While I’m flattered that my static group remembered, the reminder is annoying.

Today is our nineteenth birthday. Most people would be planning a rager, namely, my brother. But I would like to skip this day altogether.

Knowing I have a year left to live is kind of a buzz kill on the day everyone says “Here’s to another year of growing older! “

My fingers hesitate over the keyboard. What used to be effortless is now a fight to get my hands to do what I want.

And let’s face it, to a gamer, that in itself makes me wish I was already dead.

Something my parents don’t understand.

And yes, I did use that cliche line.

They find my version of reality to be silly and taking away from the present.

They think I’m giving up.

I think I’m being realistic.

Neither of us is going to convince the other.

I didn’t enroll in college like every other teen my age. ‘Cause, what’s the point, am I right? More money down the drain for nothing.

I compromised with my parents to keep my job so I’m not “ hiding away from the world “, as they put it.

Wearing a red and yellow uniform, while scanning store items, really makes me appreciate life…thanks, mom and dad.

I would much rather spend my days no-lifeing. Hanging out in the guild Discord, raiding, and min-maxing.

Apparently that doesn’t count as a life.

They want me to act like a “ normal “ teenager. Their ancient idea of what a "normal" teenager looks like would've cost them serious aura points back in high school.

Not wanting to waste this opportunity, I've been secretly putting every paycheck I make into an account for them to help with costs when I’m gone. I do spend a little money here and there so as to not be suspicious about my stash. They would disapprove if they knew, wanting me to spoil myself in this short time. But treatments aren’t cheap, and neither are funerals.

No one plans to bury their child at twenty years old.

The financial impact of someone dying is comical. You want to live six more months? That’ll be $50,000, please. Ugh. That should have gone towards tuition, books, a dorm room.

But no.

On my nineteenth birthday I get to think about what color flower spray I want on my casket.

As I walk in the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth, I can’t help but stare at a new person.

A skinnier person.

Losing twenty pounds is a dream every teen girl has, but the cancer diet blows.

My eyes are starting to sink. My cheekbones are more prominent and give me that alien supermodel look, which, honestly, I’m not mad at. My left eye is drooping. Clumps of hair are in my hairbrush. If anyone wanted to make a voodoo doll out of me, they would have no problem getting my DNA.

Pretty soon I won’t even be able to brush my hair, let alone stare at the strands that are matting up in the bristles. Gazing at my own eyes, I try to count every fleck. To memorize what they look like. Because soon, I won’t be able to see anything. That’s the last thing to go.

Vision.

At least, that's what the doctor said.

My motor skills have already started to slow. I have to concentrate to do anything.

But my sight?

That’ll be the day I give up entirely.

Peter's back.

That's what I've named the constant headache I get every morning. Giving it a personality was my doctor's idea. Something about it being easier to deal with if it had a name. I quit listening after that. But he was right. Peter is persistent, I'll give him that. Like Aunt Flow, he shows up like clockwork.

Or an ex-boyfriend breadcrumbing you months after a breakup.

The wave of nausea hits me. I dry heave into the toilet bowl, but I can't get anything to purge from my stomach. My throat is dry, yet, it's burning from the strain, like I swallowed liquid fire. I rise up from my toilet-worshipping pose, splash water on my face, and drool all over myself. I look like a basset hound, just without the adorable part.

I don my uniform and slip on my shoes to head downstairs, when I get a text.

“ Hey, Margo! Happy B-Day! Would you mind coming in an hour early? Someone called out. Thanks, Mike.“

Great. Just what I wanted. To get a text from my boss at eight a.m. No bacon and eggs for me today. Not like I was going to eat it all anyway. Hunger isn’t the problem.

Eating is.

It's a strange feeling. My body is craving nutrients, while my brain rejects the life giving food. Swallowing becomes an Olympic sport. If I can make it over the hurdle of my gag reflex, I gain the prize of fighting to purge it. Oh, you want to stay alive? I’m going to make you pay for every morsel you choke down.

And choke I will.

I rush downstairs, stumbling on each step. I used to be able to take these steps two at a time. Now, I would trip over a flea if it were in my way. I wonder how long before I am bound to the bottom floor of our home. Chained like a prisoner to the lower level. Like some kind of evil troll. It’s getting harder to hide how difficult every step has become.

When I reach the kitchen, Drew is standing by the counter, downing a protein shake while I get a muffin and drink to-go. He inhales it so quickly that some of it dribbles down his chin.

“ You are a disgusting individual. “ I say, scrunching my face.

“ Gotta get in that pre-workout nectar of the gods. This body doesn’t come naturally, you know. “ He grins and gives me a wink.

He grabs his keys to run out the door, then pauses,

“ Don’t let work kill you before the tumor does. “ I roll my eyes. That’s Drew's version of saying I love you.

He hops into his ‘87 Chevy C10 pick-up truck, and peels out of the driveway.

The day dad gave it to him he cried like a baby.

What a wimp.

But I envy him. He’s sprinting toward his future, while I’m limping toward my grave.

I turn by the island in the kitchen, when I see my mother is sitting at the table reading a book.

“ Good morning, birthday girl!! “ The excitement in her voice is strained.

This hurts her, too.

She gets up from her seat to rush over and give me a hug. I take in her smell. Vanilla and cinnamon. Her auburn hair sways behind her back. It looks like a river, flowing and moving with such ease. Her green eyes sparkle like emerald jewels. Her small frame feels large in my feeble hands, as they wrap around her. My brother and I look nothing like her. Or our father, who walks in with a wide grin and a bag in his hand.

“ Hmm…I wonder who this could be for ? “ he says in a devilish tone.

“ I told you both, no presents. ,“ already exasperated by the emotion in the room.

“ You don’t get to tell me what to do.” he jokingly proclaims.

“ Besides, I think you may feel differently when you open the bag. “

I take the bag unwillingly, giving looks of disapproval.

Tearing the tissue paper out and peering inside, my jaw hits the floor.

“ OH MY GOSH! “ I scream.

“ So, we did good? The guy at the store said it was a top of the line gamer mouse, and you know we know nothing about this. I thought maybe we got scammed. “ he chuckles.

“ A Razer Naga V2 Pro?? This can’t be real…” shock was all over my face.

“ You shouldn’t have done this. It’s too much and we can’t afford this! “ tears started to flood my eyes.

“ Finances are not for you to worry about. That’s our job. We don’t get that whole game thing, but we know it’s something you love to do in your spare time. And this will be easier on your hands…” he trails off. Not wanting to finish his sentence.

I hear his voice crack as he clears his throat.

“ Thank you, dad. This means so much to me. “ My mom wipes away tears from her eyes.

“ Well, “ she speaks up “ you ran down here like your hair was on fire. Did you get called into work? “

“ Oh, yeah. I did. I actually need to leave right now. Can I get a ride, Dad? “ I stare at the sleek mouse in my hand.

“ Will you put this in my room, mom? I want to use it as soon as I get home. “

“ Of course, Margo. Have a great day at work and again, Happy Birthday, my sweet girl.