Rose Falcone

His situation keeps getting worse.

That was the first thing that triggered me this morning to awaken the underlying tightness in my throat. The second I twisted the door handle, a spiral of deadliness froze me.

My heartbeat skyrockets to unmanageable heights, and the atmosphere around me blocks out. As if numbed by dread...

"Gallbladder cancer is a treatable disease, but is rarely curable."

Dr. Payne always had a thing about being direct. Everything that came out of his mouth was like a punch for the patients under his care. His thoughtless words were a piercing stab, a hopeless thunder of reality. A shatter of any hope I had left to resume a healthy life.

I should've known.

I had a funny feeling, an underlying suspicion I couldn't detach myself from.

The signs were present but I so naively decided to shun them. Weight loss, abdominal pain, and bloating. It was clear.

I should've seen it coming. But I ignored it.

"This cancer can only be cured if found before it spreads and it often shows no signs in earlier stages. When the symptoms start to appear, they mimic other conditions such as gallstones."

I find myself anxiously picking at my nails for comfort, trying to embrace myself for another hour of this discussion.

Every time I stepped into this room, I was one step away from denoting a land mine and losing my head in an explosion of insanity.

Every second I spend inside this vicious office, sitting in this god-forbidden chair— my heart shatters in the clutches of agony. Leaving zero hope for a complete recovery against this man-eating disease.

A godsend curse.

A vile resentment rises within me.

Regardless, I should've fucking known. So I found this crisis incredibly hilarious actually. This rotten situation could've been avoided easily—with an earlier visit to the physician— or a simple complaint about abdominal pain... but no.

It was caused by negligence.

My negligence. For ignoring the warning symptoms thinking it was a form of healthy weight loss. And his, for deliberately filing my head with fantasies of health. Still, nothing beats that merciless diagnosis.

A death sentence while you're still breathing.

"Thirty out of one hundred people survive gallbladder cancer for at least one year...ten percent survive for at least five years. His case— doesn't seem to be so... promising." Bullet after bullet, Dr. Payne kept shooting a senseless diagnosis as if he were reciting the finale of a bizarre script.

"We have found that the tumor has spread to his liver."

That was a triple headshot to lose the game.

I knew Papa's condition wasn't that good. Hell, I even believed he might not make it past another three years. But hearing the low chances of survival... wasn't something I would've liked to hear. At this moment.

What I considered the bottom pit of life— on my way to being ripped apart by despair— didn't leave me with any giddiness to smile against adversity. It didn't inspire me to fight against another misfortune. I was, undoubtedly, one word away from drowning and never feeling another sincere smile.

And I didn't need another gallon of gasoline for this hellish fire.

"In his case," Dr. Payne clears his throat, shifting in his plastic chair. "Treatments can only be used to prolong his life...chemotherapy could be used to shrink tumors to be surgically removed. But his recovery is not guaranteed."

One, two, three... seconds thump by— of me sitting in a plastic chair, mindlessly picking on my thumbnail, descending into a slow and vile tension— before my eyes snap over to Dr. Payne.

He sat behind his wooden desk in white scrubs. A scowl on his face, gray hair peeked from his stubble beard and a black fade cut stole wisdom from his years.

Tick, Tock.

The hands of the wall clock hanging above his head quietly tick, mimicking Papa's ending life span. As I dwell over the lingering meaning of his final words, the tip of my heel anxiously taps against the desk in front of me.

A defying silence devours the hospital office. A few quiet voices drift down the hall, the morning heat rushes in. The hands of the clock slowly tick, as if stuck in a time loop.

Tick... tock.

Someone was running out of luck.

Dr. Payne's dull brown eyes and black eye bags, looked like he had seen enough death to paralyze any sympathy from his beating heart. That ruthless gaze of his held no compassion, no sympathy, not even the slightest bit of pity. What stared at was straightforward— and superficial tiredness.

If he doesn't take care of himself, he might worsen his condition.

Those stern words echo in the stillness and crash their way to my heart, deepening the pressure in my shoulders. That was the first warning Dr. Payne delivered a couple of months ago. I should've listened.

But he promised he was fine.

He promised he was fine.

That last sentence loops in my head for the last time —before I stop picking on my thumbnail. My right-hand drops on the armchair, and my Saint Laurent bag sits on the corner chair beside me. An obnoxious twirl racks my stomach.

Papa doesn't have much time left.

"When can we start his treatment?" My firm voice echoes across the somber room, despite the sunlight pouring from the window beside me, and once again, my eyes drift from the clock behind Dr. Payne's face. He pushes that rolling chair backward and clicks the end of his ballpoint pen.

Click, click. For the second time, that annoying little sound triggers a scowl on my face. And I wanted nothing more than to destroy that hideous little device.

"An alcohol withdrawal is recommended." He arrogantly claps back, leaning back in his seat, completely disregarding my question.

"Papa doesn't drink," I interject with an edge. My soft voice, usually polite and composed, now sounded particularly harsh in my ears.

Dr. Payne pursed his lips as a scowl crumpled his face. He stares at me through the rim of his squared glasses, like an angry grandfather, then clicks that cheap pen—unknown documents, X-rays, and whatever exams he had Papa take lay on top of his desk.

As he nonblinking states at me, I could almost envision the smoke coming out of his ears as if he was some fucking cartoon character in a Disney show.

"Science doesn't lie." He barks, and his face grows visibly red– like the Grinch minus the distinctive greenness. "And the endoscopy says otherwise."

That makes my blood boil. A wave of frustration blasts through me.

"Papa doesn't drink," I snap. My tone finis al, stubborn, and non-negotiable. I knew my father, not the scan. It didn't matter what the diagnosis thought it was— I knew he didn't drink. "He quit drinking a year ago, and as far as I'm concerned, he could've gotten that damn cancer some other way."

For example, hereditary. I clench my fists, nails dig into my skin. And because I could not keep my mouth shut, I lash out— "And science has been proven to be wrong so many times."

Although, I couldn't name a time off the top of my head.

Dr. Payne grips his pen with a furious fist like he wants to spike some sense into me with it. A heavy silence falls upon the office, and he doesn't have to open his mouth to say it, but it is evident. Like a father-like daughter.

Click, click.

The scowl on my face deepens. Two things annoyed me this morning.

Second, that pesky pen gets on my fucking nerves.

"Now," There was a certain arrogance concealed under his professional tone, that made my body heat up. I feel the air around me still and become unbearably hot. "You have to know that there are rehabilitation programs available...none for which payment is required. However—"

"—My father doesn't drink."

"Your father needs to stop this vicious cycle so that his health doesn't become more damaged."

The sharpness of his tone snaps me.

I scoff. Like he thinks he knows him.

"Papa doesn't drink."

I bite back. Because he simply didn't get it. I knew my father, not the scan. He promised he quit drinking and until now, I haven't seen him touch a single bottle of booze. But now, even after all his efforts, his health is compromised by his past actions.

"If you insist, Miss Falcone." Dr. Payne chokes out those strained words. Guess none of us were having a good fucking day. "Here's the action plan we recommend for your father."

Dr. Payne's words faded in the background as I stared at the ceiling above my head.

Today's morning reunion left me with more worries than it gave me any flicker of hope. In return, and among many unnameable variables, I was late to work and was stuck wrestling with a violent fucking cougar.

From Shangai.

"Yes, Mrs. Welsher," I respond in a calm and professional voice. One that completely contradicted the feeling that was brewing up inside. I slid my employee badge against the automatic entry system and the glass doors automatically opened. "I'm sorry for any inconvenience that bothered you."

I offer an unapologetic apology, hoping that it could appease the growling wolf on the line. But as luck fled from my life, like sand fell out the grasp of an hourglass, I was left dealing with a middle-aged woman grumbling about the price of her cookies being two cents more expensive.

In the end, she still would've bought those fucking cookies.

Figuratively speaking, of course.

With a half-empty, now cold—coffee cup, I make my way around the building's lunch rooms. The sound of my stiletto heels clicking against the marble floors was accompanied by rattling keyboards.

Modern ceiling lights illuminate the light-colored walls across the open-spaced floor, and bustling figures dart across the offices and make their way around me. As I stride by the desolated desks of my hard-working associates. Some of them held their heads in their hands, contemplating their life choices. Evident regret pouring out of their consumed eyes.

Many, from which I relate to.

From the corner of my eye, I catch the usually clumsy figure trailing after me, falling behind as usual. Before I had any time to wonder the reasons for her offensive clumsiness, the strained voice in my ear barks as if the world was descending into madness. An apocalyptic madness.

Her world might be falling apart. But mine was still rotating in the same old orbit.... with a hefty 360 turn.

"Yes, I know." I roll my eyes, disguising my annoyance with an over-polite impatience. "Please understand that he is not in his office at this moment—"

An indignant shout blasted through my phone. Then rambling, like a chicken bickering, took over. I flick the phone away from my ear to ignore the infuriated ranting.

I turn to face Angeline, my assistant and the person who keeps failing to keep up, my iPad with the designs I drafted last night.

I needed my boss's approval before I could move on to the final draft.

"Tell Mister Solace that he had a missed appointment at nine... and a missing call."

I turned sour on the fact that I was the one who kept rearranging his meetings like his personal secretary. I did not get paid enough to deal with his bullshit.

Angeline tugs a wavy strand behind her ear, juggling her phone, a latte, and countless sketches inside that stuffed journal as she speeds to catch up to me.

Her unruly hair was disheveled from that all-nighter she pulled, a measuring tape hung from her blouse, and a frown formed on her chestnut face. One glance at her, and it makes my annoyance spark.

"You got cream on your face, fix it."

Her eyes widen, her pale facand e turns red. Irritation bursts through my veins.

"Yes, Mrs. Falcone, thank you for telling me..." I stride a couple of steps further with her petite figure trailing after me like a dog wagging its tail to its owner.

My scowl deepens. "Um, I was informed that someone is waiting fo—"

"—Tell them I can't meet them."

She swallows her last words.

Nearing my boss's office, I stop on a corner to set my phone on top of the pile of work Angeline carries. My left-hand darts out to support myself against the window beside me, and as I balance myself on one foot, I ignore the conceited stares from the employees striding by when I bend down to buckle the loose strap of my stiletto heel. As I do so, I stare down at a radiant, hustling New York City.

The forgotten angry voice blasts from my phone, sounding like a chipmunk squirming in anger. "Would your boss like to get sued!?"

I can't help the bitter flicker of amusement that arises within me.

"You'll be doing both of us a favor."

I'll be goddamn grateful.

In a swift moment, I secure the loose trap of my heel and hop on my left foot, causing my glossy chocolate curls to slide to my collarbones. Seems like my comment must've reached that angry cougar's ears because she barks out in menace,

"Do you know who I am young lady!?" Even though I didn't hold the phone anywhere near my ear, and the call wasn't on speaker, that thin voice shrieked loud enough to almost fool me into believing she was standing next to me. "I could make your life a living hell if I want to—"

Once I properly buckle my heels, and just because I have the time to do so, I flick my compact mirror open. "Doubtful."

As I reapply my lipstick, my ears are about to rot at the stressful rage.

"We invested too much money for another one of your boss's negligent 'parties." For the thousandth time— the middle-aged woman repeats the same sentence like a damaged DVD player stuck on repeat. "We want that fucking collection done. Or your career is on the line for it."

My impatience spikes.

I like my canine teeth then sn,ap close my compato ct mirror, my tone is filled with brutal bitterness. "In case you didn't know, a scandal of a threat might look good attached to your company's name."

A beat of a thick silence sails by. A couple of employees scurry by to avoid me as if they were in the presence of some tyrant. The voice on the line trembles, and I can't make out the rest of the sentence she tries to formulate.

"H-how dare you—."

My eyes narrow on Angeline as she uncomfortably clings to my side, lips tight. Looking like she had something to say. Just when I was to take the middle-aged woman's silence as a win, her tight and strained voice recovered from her shock.

"We want every single penny back."

I kick my right foot up, and stare at the ceiling, fuzzily. Waiting for this call to be over with. I glance down at my fresh manicure and ponder on how I could've avoided this ridiculous situation. If I had a goddamn excuse, say—too busy stuffing my neck in work— to avoid her fucking call.

"Or those fucking designs by the end of the month."

I wriggle my almond-shaped nails in the air, admiring the way the sunlight glistens on the gold leaf tips, ignoring the voice ranting on the phone. Made with careful detail, each pair looked like tiny little artworks. On my middle finger lay a beautiful rhinestone pearl to look pretty when I flip someone off.

Patience is a virtue.

"...Do we have a deal?"

My annoyance springs to life.

"Unfortunately, I'm not able to answer that question. So you'll have to schedule an appointment with Mr. Solace if you to go over the details."

Sensing the call was ending soon, the woman panics. "Wait—"

"I'll inform Mr. Solace about your call."

With that, I hung up the phone.

Dear old silence lingers in the air.

I rub my left temple, a  scowl in place. Sometimes, I wondered what prompted me to be stuck in a tedious office. With a negligent boss who was never present, and depressed coworkers who merely lived on a shot of espresso. As I stared at the ceiling, my mind in a fog of oppression, I wondered how my once colorful and bright dreams turned so... old... and opaque.

Sour with such a remorseful distaste.

It felt like my life took an irreversible 360 turn and for the worse. The way I envisioned myself three years ago was not the way to go.

I give myself a moment to recompose... before I push off the wall.

"Angeline, is that project done?" I peek through my boss's blinds to find the lights out in his office. I peer further inside ignoring Angeline's uncomfortable reflection appearing through the glass. I inspect the empty office, finding no signs of Mr. Solace.

My underlying suspicion snarls at me.

"Erm... would you mind repeating the date?"

An indignant displeasure racks through me.

For God's sake.

He was the fucking CEO of this company but I was the one running it—always getting my hands dirty. It was the busiest day of the week and the negligent man was nowhere to be found. I wouldn't be surprised if he did a hit-and-run and ditched all his illegal debts to the company's shareholders.

I spun on my heels to face Angeline. Her quiet voice instantly shuts down.

My gaze narrows, tone sharp. "What was that?"

"I was saying... a man came by looking for you and told me to give you this."

My eyes flick to the red envelope she held out to me. I flick it open to read the fancy calligraphy. The most expensive for Her Majesty

I let out a nose wrinkle, and toss it to a nearby trashcan. "Next time you see him call security."

Before she can utter a single word, I stride past her. Not caring about whatever shit she was going to stutter. I had work to do, and she did too. We could not afford to waste any more time.

"But Mrs. Falcone,"

As I rub my temples, heading towards my office, I don't fail to notice that delicate little flower pocking among that pile of work. A picture of those cheap boutique roses lying on her desk flares in my head.

"And throw that shit away."

"But I think is romantic."

"Do I need to repeat myself?"

Angeline swallows, "Can I at least keep some of the roses?"

"Throw them away." I don't get to hear her resentful murmur before I open my office door and halt.

Annoyance ignites inside me again.

What the fuck is this?