Page 5 of The Ecstasy of Sin
The medic nods. “Come with me. Let’s get you outside and into the ambulance.”
He reaches for his radio, calling in a request for a second unit. While he speaks, I glance back at my father.
I watch, breath caught in my throat, as the one performing CPR falls back on his heels, sweat shining on his brow. The second takes over without hesitation, and their eyes meet. It’s a silent exchange. He shakes his head, his lips drawn into a tight line, and the other nods in agreement.
He’s gone. My dad is dead. The only person I had left in this world… is gone.
That’s the last thought I have before darkness swarms around me from the edges of my vision, swallowing the light, the noise, and the pain.
And then, nothing. Just the silence of oblivion as I fall.
CHAPTER 1
Wren
25 Years Old – Present Day
“You’vemissedsixshiftsin the last two weeks, Wren. I’m sorry, but we have to let you go.”
My heart is thundering as I stand in front of my boss, Allison. I can’t shake the feelings of dread and despair, and the desperation gathering like a lump in my throat.
I can’t catch a break.
“I ran out of my migraine prevention meds, Allison,” I say quickly, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. “I’ll be able to refill them with my next paycheck—please, I just need a little more time.”
If I lose this job, I’ll be back at rock bottom. I’ve only been here for a month and a half, and I haven’t had anywhere near enough time or income to restock my medication and start saving for housing.
I’ve been scraping and clawing to make it through the three-month probationary period, desperate to lock in something steady. But without consistent money coming in, I can’t always afford my preventive medication to keep my migraines at bay.
And when I go off it, the migraines hit like a sledgehammer. They cluster up and knock me on my ass for days on end. When Iammedicated, they are less frequent, and the symptoms are mild enough that I can push through my shifts, keep up appearances, and survive.
Allison shakes her head, tucking a errant strand of short blonde hair behind her ear. She’s already checked out. “I’m sorry, but I need someone reliable.”
Her words are salt in the wound, something I’ve heard over and over again from a myriad of different employers as I’ve fought to secure a steady job.
A sharp, weary sigh escapes me before I can think better of it, and she narrows her eyes on me. Wordlessly, she holds out my final paycheck with a freshly manicured hand, like it’s a mercy, and not a potential death sentence.
Resigned to my fate, I take the check from her hand, doing everything I can to hide the tremble in my fingers as I look down at the meager amount. It’s not enough to fill my prescription, and not enough to keep me fed until I can find another job.
I don’t speak another word as I turn away from her and head for my locker in the staff room. Behind me, Allison mutters something to the assistant manager, but it’s too low for me to make out. I don’t need to hear it. I’ve become so used to people talking down to me like I’m a pest, I imagine it’s something unkind.
I grab my backpack from my locker, the pathetic sum of everything I own, and leave.
I sling it over my shoulder and brush past her on my way out, eyes fixed on the floor to avoid the pity I know is lurking in the attentive eyes of my former coworkers.
This is just one more job lost because of my invisible illness, adding to a pile of countless other failures in my attempt to stay gainfully employed.
I can’t help but wonder why I haven’t put myself out of my misery yet, rather than struggling endlessly through life with nothing to show for it. Every day feels like so much effort, just to find myself back at square one.
I shove those bleak thoughts away, because entertaining them will only make me cry, and I refuse to do that right now.
I have dreams of going to one of the community colleges and taking some classes so I can make a real life for myself, but until I can find a secure job that will accommodate my neurological disorder, that goal is as distant as a cure.
When I step out into the cool night air, I’m enveloped in the familiar chaos of downtown Toronto. The streets buzz with traffic noise and loud voices, while the sea of endless strangers comes and goes like the tide.
Pulling out my phone, I check the time. It’s getting late, and of course Allison decided to wait until the very end of my overtime shift to let me go—giving me very little time to get myself a meal, and get to the shelter to try and secure a bed for the night.
With no time to waste, I tuck my phone away and force my legs forward, heading toward Good Shepherd Respite—a popular center that provides hot meals and basic supplies for the homeless here in Toronto.
