Page 1 of Toxic Hope
1
EMMA
“How are you feeling, sweetheart? How are you holding up?”
The question isn’t directed at me, but it makes me smile a little, anyway. I turn my head to the right far enough to watch a middle-aged man with worry etched across his face, leaning over to squeeze the hand of the woman sitting in a chair just like mine, next to a machine just like mine.
Receiving chemotherapy, just like me.
She gives him a weary smile that lights up her face, even if the effect doesn’t last for long. She’s trying to be strong—to be brave for him. I might not know what it’s like to have somebody sit with me through this, but I am familiar with putting on a brave face.
The last thing I want is for Grandma’s health to get any worse because of me. It’s bad enough she had to spend so much of Grandpa’s life insurance payout to fund our move, and all because she wanted me to get the best care possible. We can’t risk her having another stroke. It might not be small this time, the way it was before. And I don’t know what I would do without her.
So it’s for the best that even though she wants to be here, I always tell her to stay home and rest. Officially, there’s nothingshe could do here, anyway, besides sit and make up stories about the people we see. That’s something she likes to do when she’s bored—deciding who people are and where they come from, what made them cross paths with us. She watches a lot of movies and loves the ones where characters have secrets they hide from the rest of the world.
I know all about secrets.
I also know that once I’m finished, there’ll be a narrow window of time when I’ll be able to drive before the exhaustion gets to be too much. I could get a cab or an Uber, but it feels like a waste of money we need for other things. That’s why I’m out of my chair as soon as the nurse says it’s okay for me to go. I feel the clock ticking, and like secrets, that’s nothing new. I have felt the clock ticking for a long time. Thankfully, everybody seems positive and helpful based on my reaction to treatment so far.
So maybe it’s ticking a little softer, but the sound is still there. It follows me everywhere I go, which right now means trailing me down the hall to the elevator, hovering over my shoulder all the way down to the lobby, then through the revolving doors leading outside. Things are pretty quiet out here at this time of night. It’s past seven, meaning shift change has already gone through, and close enough to the end of visiting hours that most randoms have already left. Spend enough time in a hospital and you start to pick up on routines.
Fresh air is a nice change of pace after breathing recycled hospital air that smells of bleach and staleness. I always make it a point to take a few deep breaths to clear my head on my way to the car, like I’m leaving treatment behind for now. Sort of like taking a shower to wash the day away. Same idea. The scent still clings to my clothes, though, as I hustle toward the late-model Hyundai that sometimes requires a lot of praying before it will start. I really hope tonight isn’t one of those times, since I’m sort of in a hurry.
At least, I was in a hurry before I hear what sounds like a fight going on a couple of rows away from where I’m parked. There’s a handful of cars scattered around up there.
Don’t go over there.My instincts are screaming at me to mind my own business while I come to a stop, looking around the mostly dark lot for any sign of whoever is making those pained, grunting noises. Curiosity and concern are what makes my feet move in the direction of the noise, even as I tell myself to stop.This isn’t your fight. This isn’t your problem.Maybe not, but I would want somebody to help me if it was my problem. That’s a lot of what’s wrong with the world in a nutshell, really. People who can’t be bothered to get a little uncomfortable for somebody else’s sake.
A large, black truck blocks most of what’s happening next to it, but as I slowly round the front, I’m rewarded with a better view—though I can’t say I’m glad now that I have a look at the battered, bloody guy on the ground, curled in a ball and gasping for air.
That’s not the worst part. The worst part is not one, but two men standing over him—breathing hard, fists clenched at their sides.
It doesn’t take me long to figure out what’s happening, and disgust races through my trembling body once the picture comes together. There’s one thing about me that’s never going to change, and that’s a sense of fairness. This isn’t fair. How is one guy supposed to defend himself against two tall, muscular guys like the ones now glaring at me after I interrupted them?
“Hey,” one of the two grunts at me between his pants for breath.
It’s only when I pull my gaze from the guy on the ground and focus on the heartless bully in front of me that I realize I must be looking at twins. They’re almost identical, except for the way they style their dark hair—I can’t tell if it’s brown or black inthe amber glow shining down from one of the parking lot lights—but one of them wears it long enough for it to flop across his forehead, while the other wears it short. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to tell them apart. They’re both dressed well, clean shaven, the opposite of what I’d expect from a couple of brutal thugs. I should know better than that.
Long Hair jerks his chin while giving me an angry glare. “Get out of here. Mind your business.”
“Yeah, fucking get lost,” his twin mutters before he pulls his right leg back so he can kick the wounded man in the ribs.
Right in front of me. He did it right in front of me like he didn’t care whether or not I was watching. The words bubble out of me before I can stop them. “You can’t just do that! Since when is two against one okay?”
“Are you for real?” Short Hair scoffs and looks me up and down before scoffing again like he’s unimpressed by my petite frame. “You better leave and forget all about this if you know what’s good for you.”
I should, too. I know I should. Every drop of common sense I possess is begging me to get the hell out of here while I still can. But dammit, it’s not right, and I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I cowered away from doing the right thing. Gritting my teeth against the fear that demands I stay silent, I mutter, “I’m going to get security out here unless you leave him alone.”
“This little bitch can’t take a hint.” Long Hair jerks his head back so the locks brushing his forehead are swept back. “Last warning. Get moving and forget about this, or you’re going to wish you did.”
Is that supposed to scare me? If anything, the lame threat gives me strength I was missing before now and makes me forget the fatigue threatening to take my legs out. “This is your last warning,” I fire back at him, making his dark eyes widen whilehis twin snickers. “I’m going back inside and getting a security guard out here if you don’t walk away now.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” He never breaks eye contact while bending down to grab the shirt collar of the guy who’s still barely conscious on the ground. He hauls him up, then makes it a point to exchange a look with me before smashing his fist against the guy’s face. I don’t know what’s worse: the sound of flesh hitting flesh, or the miserable, painful groan the victim releases.
Forget this.I should go to the car, I know I should, but instead, my feet take me back inside the hospital. I’m moving more slowly than I did before—the fatigue is really creeping up on me. A trio of strangers is the last thing I need to be worried about, but for some reason, not even getting to the car so I can rest means as much as stopping those arrogant pricks. And that’s all they are, too. Imagine knowing I’m standing there watching them and doing it, anyway. Two against one. It doesn’t take a brave person to engage in that fight.
That’s why there is so much resentment and even outrage boiling in my veins by the time I reach the front desk, where a security guard sits off to the side. “There’s somebody getting beaten up in the parking lot, two guys against one,” I announce a little breathlessly. “I told them to stop. I told them I’d come get security, but they didn’t care.”
“I’ll call the police.” The woman sitting behind the desk already has the phone in her hand.
