Fireworks On The Ground

It’s December 27th.

The sun’s not out yet. It’s six o’ clock and my phone’s alarm is trying its hardest to get me out of bed. I really don’t wanna wake up and my body feels like shit, so I tell myself I’ll get up in four or five minutes.

Next thing I know it’s six thirty-five and I’m only getting up because I have to take a leak really bad. I stare at my now scrawny body as I stand in front of my closet door mirror, trying my hardest to pick out a decent outfit from the few clothes that still fit me. Buying new ones would be nice, but there’s no point anymore. I boil two eggs for breakfast and barely bring myself to finish one. I look at the time and realize my shift is supposed to start in seven minutes. But as much as I should, I don’t really care. I step out of my apartment and try to rush down three flights of stairs and into the parking lot, trying to control my coughing as I constantly run out of breath on my way down. There’s a small blood stain on my right hand.

I get in my car. Three different warnings light up on my dashboard. I drive to work and clock into my shift seventeen minutes late. My manager looks annoyed, but I know damn well the thought alone of confronting me makes him feel guilty. I try to keep my shit together, but the rest of the day isn’t too easy on me. Not that what I do is exactly physically demanding, not by a long shot. Everything else is just making it harder than it should be. The only reason I still bother to show up is because I don’t wanna starve. If I had it my way, I would’ve never ended up stuck here in the first place. Even getting those three hours and forty-three minutes over with doesn’t give me any relief. I know what’s about to follow them is even worse.

First thing I do after my shift is lock myself in my car with the heater blasting hot air into my face to try to cope with the hellish cold that awaits me every time I have to go outside. All it ever does is remind me of every regret I’ve had since leaving home. They always hurt more than the cold. Even if there’s no point in dwelling on that anymore, I just can’t help myself. After a while of delaying the inevitable, I sigh and start the half hour drive to the clinic.

Even through the snow I can already see the sign’s faint red glow on top of the entrance, spelling out “SOUTH BROOKLYN CANCER CARE AND RESEARCH CENTER.” Oddly enough, the lot’s emptier than last time; the only other person here is some guy in a winter jacket smoking as he tries not to freeze. It’s kinda eerie, but at least it saves me some wait time. As I make my way to the entrance, I notice the man grabbing his now finished cigarette and using the tip to light his next one. Seeing that reminds me of dad, the once undefeated king of the chainsmokers.

I walk into the mostly empty lobby and I’m instantly noticed by Fernanda, who as I just found out, has a shift as the receptionist here. It must’ve ended before I came in yesterday. We’ve been drinking buddies since my first year in the States. I try my best to pretend I don’t want to scream as I say hi to her. As we talk, her smile doesn’t reach her tired eyes like usual. Before long, she looks at me and says, “Come on now, Ignacio. I already signed you in, so feel free to take a seat.” I notice her face drop as soon as I walk away, a gleam of pity in her eye.

Three minutes later, a nurse calls my name and I follow her into a tidy white room. Part of me wants to run the second I see the IV. I don’t wait for her to ask before I start changing into a hospital gown and lay down on the bed. She stands by as she prepares to inject the needle into my wrist and asks if I’m ready with a tender smile. I joke that I’ll never be. She tries to hide her frown with an awkward chuckle before stabbing the needle into my arm and turning the IV on. I look at the ceiling and try not to hyperventilate as I feel the burn slowly creep up my arm and into the rest of my body. For the next two hours all life is slowly drained outta me as I feel my insides boiling. There’s never a moment where the pain feels any lighter.

They let me out and I feel like I want to lay down and fucking die. I somehow manage the drive back home, and feel every joint in my body beg for mercy as I try to walk up three flights of stairs and into my apartment for the next seven minutes. First thing I do is drop my whole body on my desk chair and groan at no one in particular for long enough to be considered a waste of time. I stare at my drawing pad before reluctantly plugging it in and trying to get a commission out of the way. As much as I try to get good progress done, every stroke of that stylus feels like a chore and my hands are already starting to hurt after fifteen minutes. I probably spend a little under two hours drawing but barely manage to get more than two bare bone figures out of the way. But in all fairness, even if my body didn’t feel like collapsing at any moment, I’m not exactly ecstatic to draw two gay anthropomorphic raccoons eating each other out.

I give up. I stumble over to the mostly empty fridge, pull out some leftover pasta I managed to cook last week and shove it into the microwave. It doesn’t taste great, but at least my stomach’s not killing me as much as usual, so I finish it. Shortly after dinner I’m lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling as faint light from between the blinds shines dimly on the wall. As tired as I am, I just can’t fall asleep. I just keep thinking about my life, where I am at. I keep thinking about the past, about dad. I keep thinking about the future, what was next. About what I’ll leave behind.

On New Year’s Eve, I will calmly walk into Times Square and blow my brains out in the middle of the heavy festive crowd right before midnight. My final moments burned into the memory of the unlucky souls who witness my death will be my legacy. My final shot at leaving a mark. At mattering.