Now, I’m spinning to Marianas Trench’s ‘Desperate Measures’, huffing my breath out while the beads of sweat pouring down my face are earned rewards, my body fat saying goodbye in salty tears.
When forty-five minutes are up, and I can stand on my own two feet, I head to the shower, peeling my clothes off that are now soaked in sweat. When I’m done, I secure a towel around my chest and take a good hard look in the mirror.
I note the slightest indentation underneath my cheekbones, the shape of my eyes. I notice the boring brown color of my hair. If I were to peel the towel off, my boobs wouldn’t be anything extraordinary, my ribcage isn’t narrow and even though I have the slightest inset where a waist should be, you can’t see my hipbones or ignore the pudge around my belly.
I didn’t win the genetic jackpot; I’m sub-average. I’ve let myself get hurt over and over because I thought I deserved it, because I’m not beautiful. I’m the ugly one in the family, so I have to do better. I have to be smarter, funnier; I have to be a better friend, a better kid. I have to do whatever my parents say, even if I’m miserable.
Shaking my head at myself, I pick out a shirt that says ‘Burdened with glorious purpose’, topped off with Loki’s horned helmet. I put on sweats, ready to spend my Sunday evening relaxing in front of the TV. I’ve got NCIS and Hannibal taped, although I’m opting to watch everybody’s favourite cannibal bright and early tomorrow morning before work.
A tentative knock hits my door, echoing about my place. I stop breathing – thinking it’s Hannibal Lecter that wants to taste me. I’m still new to this building, so I really shouldn’t be having any visitors. My friends are too well trained to barge in unannounced, so that leaves one option.
My heart stumbles in my chest, my feet sluggish and numb as I move to the door. Nobody at the peephole. I open the door a crack, keeping the chain locked like it’s supposed to really stop someone who wants to come in.
Matty’s standing in front of my door, bouncing on the balls of his feet, the chunk of hair on the top of his head flopping around with his movements. I close the door quick and take off the chain. I lunge for my keys and purse on the counter, stuff my feet into flip-flops and make my way out, turning to lock up. So many thoughts run through my head.
Is he dead? Is Hunter dead? Am I going to be able to carry him out to the elevator again? What the frak is this guy doing to himself?
“What happened, Matty? Is your Dad okay?”
“N-n-no... He’s not. He yelled at me, and I got scared, Sera.” The little guy’s face is white on white. When I’m done locking my door, both his hands wrap around one of mine. I can feel him tremble through my palm. Christ, why can’t Hunter just regulate his sugars?
Matty lets us in, and my gaze moves to the couch, where Hunter’s sprawled, one foot touching the ground, the other pointing towards the opposite armrest. He’s looking up at the ceiling, eyes half-closed. The living room is dark – I have to make my way over to him with the patio’s approaching-dusk light. I settle myself on the edge of the couch, unsure of what to do. I can’t get him up all by lonesome – I need his help.
Matty’s at my side, tugging on my hand. “His number is two-dot-nine. He hasn’t taken his in-su-lin. I’ve been watching.” My heart hurts that he has to know that at four years old, and that it’s wrong.
“Actually, buddy, we need to get him something to eat. You have any honey?” I might be a bad person, sending him scampering off to get it from the cupboard. I hear a chair being scraped across the floor, and leave him to it. My attention can’t be divvied up effectively between Hunter and Matty. I have to deal with the one who’s in the most danger – the big lummox lying down next to me.
Nabbing his glucometer from the coffee table in front of me, I get it ready and puncture his index finger after swabbing it. I take his blood just to make sure Matty didn’t read the number wrong.
Five seconds feels like five days. Five days in which all my earlier whining means nothing, all my epiphanies are completely insignificant when this guy is fighting for his life. I’m being forced to acknowledge that my problems are nothing compared to his.
“Hunter?” I put my hand on his arm, give him a shake. He doesn’t even budge. I get up and get my whole weight behind the motion only to be my clumsy-ass self and lose my footing with my flip-flops on the carpet. I land on him, hearing him let out an oof. But I get a glimpse of those beautiful baby blues and Bill Conti’s ‘Getting Strong Now’ belts out in my head. “Hunter, can you hear me?”