Page 53 of Poison Aches

Why do we keep secrets?

I’ve been asking myself the same question for that past week, and all my reasons sound plausible but then what about the consequences?

The acoustic version of "Nervous" by Gavin James is crooning softly from the speakers.

In the corner of the room, my bags are packed and ready.

Most of my stuff’s already gone but I can’t help but feel out of sorts, as if I’m existing in a time warp.

I was accepted to all the med schools I applied to.

Grammy and Samuel were ecstatic, which made me sick for three straight days.

My friends sent flowers and gifts in the form of a personalized, bejeweled, top-of-the-line Littmann stethoscope and a doctor’s white coat with my name.

I broke down crying that night.

What happens when they all find out that I’m a fraud?

These people are not idiots. The only reason they haven’t found out yet is simply because they have no reason to doubt.

And usually, people have no reason to doubt pathetic, invisible people.

If you’re easy to forget, you’re easy to dismiss.

On one hand, I’m relieved about that, but on another the meaning behind it all just hurts so deep.

Maybe that’s why I picked a fight with Samuel… or maybe I just wanted to fish for something.

“You’ve been giving me the silent treatment for a solid two days now.”

I stare intently at myGray’s Atlas of Anatomytextbook, pretending like I didn’t hear what the idiot standing in my doorway just said.

“I know you’re not even reading that thing.”

I force my eyes to move, but the words blur together, but it doesn’t really matter. I’ve read this particular textbook from cover to freaking cover about eight times already.

Even though I’ve read it so much that my eyes could pop, I still need to read it a few more times because for me, it’s the retaining information and the understanding part that trips me up like crazy.

If I could automatically get into med school by how much I’ve read, then this would be a shoo-in! Unfortunately, talent is nothing in the world of academia.

This is the result one gets when one is unfortunate enough to have the kind of damaged brain that doesn’t work as well as it should.

“Ivy,” Samuel calls my name again. I know he’s getting frustrated. “You know you’re being ridiculous, right?”

Unconsciously, I run my middle finger over the ugly scar at my temple.

“Is that your signal?” the idiot questions with an equally dumbfounded look on his face. “Because if that’s you giving me the finger, then you kinda need to work on that some more, but since we both know you never have the guts to actually do that, why don’t you use your words to express your displeasure? Maybe try cursing me out this time, Pumpkin.”

I whip my head around to glare at the idiot.

“Don’t call me that!”

Samuel, aka Spider, smirks.

He’s a huge guy, looks scary and can be intimidating as hell when he wants to be, especially if you don’t know him. You’d think twice before you think of approaching him, let alone crossing him in some way.

I guess that little feature is extremely useful for him, you know, for his line of questionable work.

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