Page 4 of The Lies I've Told
I remembered the piece I’d made for the small town that had recently been destroyed. I’d poured my heart and soul into that statue, giving it life and movement, grief and resolution and a fluid sense of calm.
It was one of my greatest achievements, and when it had vacated my studio to be shipped off to its final destination, I’d mourned the emptiness it left behind. I’d always hoped I’d be able to see it once more.
But it was gone.
I swallowed hard at that realization.
Everything in this life was so fleeting. It all just came and went.
Dust in the wind.
Grabbing a mug from one of the cupboards, I poured a fresh cup of coffee, not bothering with cream or sugar, quite certain my sour stomach couldn’t take it anyway. Heading for the living room once more, I slumped down onto the sofa, placing my phone on the coffee table in front of me.
After a long, hot sip from my cup, I found myself staring at the black screen of my phone, thinking about the email from Dean Sutherland.
“As if I could just whip up another one. Asshole,” I muttered, taking another drink of coffee. “And, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. I need to stay focused. I’m a ticking time bomb.”
I didn’t know why, but the thought made me laugh. It was a chuckle at first; low and rumbly in the back of my throat until it grew into a full-fledged, all-out ruckus. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I laughed at my own fucked up predicament.
“Boom!” I hollered as I clutched my side and doubled over in amusement.
Until I caught sight of that stupid sheet of paper underneath the coffee table.
Where had that come from?I’d thought I’d shoved it deep inside my pocket. Reaching down, I grabbed it, unfolding it as I wiped away the moisture from my face.
I was all laughed out now.
Reality was back, slapping me in the face as I looked down at the positive test results in big, bold script. Like I’d needed it all written down after looking at that stupid grid. I’d known what he was going to tell me by the grave look on his face before he even opened his mouth.
And when he did…
It was like a fucking death sentence.
Or at least, it might as well have been.
I crumpled up the paper and threw it across the room, hating everything and everyone in that moment.
James, for choosing to be a doctor, especially mine.
Dean Sutherland and the fucking town of Ocracoke, for reminding me that everything ended.
And me. Most of all, me. For aspiring to be more than the piece-of-shit orphan I’d started out as.
All of a sudden, everything felt too small.
This room.
This goddamn city.
I needed air.
I needed space.
Picking up my phone once more, I made a split decision.
“Hi, Dean. This is Aiden Fisher. You sent me an email about the monument I sculpted for your town.”
“I did. I didn’t expect such a prompt reply. Or a telephone call,” he replied.
