Life, Interrupted

I slouched in my desk chair. My eyes were glued to the harshly glowing screen in front of me. They scanned entry after entry on the website. “It was hard for a while at first, but eventually I learned to just take life as it comes. And against all odds I survived, and now I’m a concert pianist. It’s definitely changed me for the better.” Bullshit. As if a fatal disease could possibly change one for the better.

I would have laughed, but I didn’t do that anymore. Not since I heard the news. The annoying thing was that the doctors tried to look all upset and shit, even though it was obvious that they didn’t give a fuck. ‘I’m very sorry, Roxanne, but you appear to have small cell lung cancer,’ was what they said, in their “I-feel-so-sorry-for-you-yet-I-don’t-actually-care” kind of voices. Pathetic. Mom insisted that it was because I smoked, which I consistently informed her was shit talk from someone who smoked enough cigarettes in one day to supply your average gas station for a week. But back to me. I was pretty much dying. I viciously stabbed at the track pad on the laptop with a single finger after I had maneuvered the curser over to the little red “X” in the upper right-hand corner of the screen. Phew, thank God that was over. I can’t believe Mom actually had the nerve to command me to look at some self-help website about dealing with fatal diseases. It might not seem that bad, but these were all stories and articles written by people who had survived the motherfucking thing. Now how fucked up is that?

I closed the laptop as gently as was possible in my current state of mind. After shoving around several months’ worth of shit laying around inside the desk, I located a pack of cigarettes. It might as well have been surrounded with a glistening light, accompanied by the sound of angels’ trumpets, and had a halo floating above it for all the happiness it gave me. Or at least seemed to give me, while I was indulging in the death sticks it provided. I had an equally hard time finding my lighter; once I finally did, I shared with it some choice words I had picked up from the more disgusting boys in my school. Satisfied with my cursing abilities, I lit up and walked over to the window; hey, just because I smoke doesn’t mean I want every single thing in my home to smell like it. I inhaled, then slowly exhaled, reveling in the sensation. Some people just look weird smoking, I know, I’ve seen it (and internally laughed at their attempts to be badass), and I know for a fact that I’m a motherfucking natural. For me, it’s just like chewing gum or reading. Once I start, I automatically keep going. Apparently, just like my mother.

“Roxanne!”

I growled (yes, I do growl) under my breath. Speak of the devil. . .

“Roxanne! You’re not smoking, are you? If I go up there and you’re smoking. . .” she trails off, her low, grainy, chain smoker voice descending into a fit of coughing.

Unfortunately, she need not finish that threat. I know very well from experience how creative this woman can be when it comes to punishments. I quickly stub out my cigarette in my handy-dandy ashtray, and leave it there, setting the tray on the shallow ledge outside, just to the left of the window; the ledges were one of the few bonuses this complex has to offer.

I get up and shut the window, scurrying over to my desk, and am just beginning to look busy with a book as she opens the door while knocking on it.

“Why would I be smoking, Mom? Wouldn’t my impending death be a pretty good reason to quit?” She clearly doesn’t appreciate my logical thinking.

She sent an impressive glare my way before stalking out, leaving the door hanging open. I sighed.

“Hey, there. Wanna go get a drink or two?” An old, hopefully drunk man was leering at me from against the filthy brick wall of the dimly lit alley.

I tried not to cringe as I ignored him and continued on to my apartment. I hated living in this shithole, but it was all we could, or would be able to afford for a while, probably forever. Hopefully this pleasant resident would take the hint and give up.

Thankfully, he did, and I quickened my pace in hopes to avoid further such encounters. When I finally reached my apartment, I fumbled with the keys, cursing when I couldn’t find the right one. Eventually I did, and I let myself into the apartment.

“Mikey,” I called out. I was answered by a loud snore coming from the ancient couch sitting a few feet from me in front of the microscopic television.

I sighed. Second time in one week I’d found him sleeping on the couch. Whatever. He was Mikey, after all. If sleeping on a couch despite the obvious presence of two perfectly (well, not perfectly. . .) good beds was the weirdest thing he did, I should consider myself lucky.

I continued on past the living room, down the use-to-be-cream-colored carpeted hall, and entered a room. My room. I shut and, as always, locked the door behind me. Mikey needn’t know about every single thing I do.