Dear Olive

"How are you feeling?" Natalie asked as she pressed a damp cloth against my forehead.

I closed my eyes against the bright afternoon sun and replied, "Like someone took a sledgehammer to my scull. I have some Vicodin in the bathroom -"

"Let me get it," Olive broke in. She hurried to get the medication and I opened my eyes enough to watch her go.

It was like seeing a ghost step through the room. Not that Olive had died, but she was essentially dead to me. I'd buried her with the person I used to be in a field out beyond the city.

I'd laid all my feeling for her to rest and come to accept how things had to be. It was an act of self preservation. The only choice that kept my sanity intact.

So what if it had been the wrong choice?

What if Olive was telling the truth and she was still the girl I loved?

"Charlie, are you crying?" Natalie asked as she rose nervously to her feet.

I touched my hand disbelievingly to my cheek and felt the damp trails of my tears. I was crying...

Was I sad?

How was that even possible after the change? I wasn't supposed to feel sad or anything at all. So why were emotions rushing in on me like a rip current; ready to suck me under and drown me?

"Something's wrong, Natalie. I don't know what's going on, but my head hurts and I'm not myself... Or maybe that's wrong. Maybe I am myself again."

I knew I wasn't coherent. My words were jumbling together like mismatched pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. The things I was saying were confusing, even to me.

"Olive, you might want to hurry up!" Natalie shouted.

"I'm right here. How's he doing?" Olive asked as she reentered the room. Then she looked at me and her fair skin turned a few shades paler. She tried to mask it, but I could tell she was alarmed.

"What is it? What's happening to me right now?" I cried out, on the verge of being hysterical.

"Charlie, I think I need to call my Dad," Olive told me as she dug her phone out of her pocket. I noticed the way her hands were shaking.

"What is your Dad going to do? He's not a doctor," I protested. Olive gave me a look that would have cut lesser men down at the knees, but I continued on, "As you can tell, I'm not feeling especially fantastic right now, and I may need medical attention. So, you'll have to excuse me saying that you've picked a really inconvenient time to think your opinion matters at all."

Olive's fist clenched, her lips tightened, she turned on her heel and then she walked away. It felt like a punch to the gut to see her retreating, but then it occurred to me she wasn't leaving the house. She was going to get something...

Olive came back to my side with a mirror in hand. She turned it so that I could see myself. (I had definitely looked better!) Blood crusted my nose and upper lip. The dark color of it was particularly stark against my ashen skin.

I was definitely sick, but what was her point?

Olive turned the angle of the mirror a little and the side of my head came into veiw. Bald skin and the dark patch. Except the dark patch was larger and a mottled shade of purple...

"It's not a birthmark is it, Olive?" I posed my words as a question, but it was really more of a statement, because I already knew what her answer would be.