Page 1 of Fractured Constellations
PROLOGUE
“TRAIN WRECK - ACOUSTIC” BY JAMES ARTHUR
LUNA
Cancer.
Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. Again.
I fucking hate those two words, so unassuming when spoken, but they mean so much as they describe my body trying to kill me for the third fucking time.
I was first diagnosed when I was ten years old, and though the months of chemo and radiotherapy sucked, it was worth it when I was told I was in remission eight months later. Yeah, I missed most of fifth grade, leaving me a bit clueless when it comes to a lot of social situations, but hey, I was alive.
Then it came back when I was thirteen, like a stage five fucking clinger. Most girls were worrying about boys and even talking about losing their V-cards. Me? I was puking my guts up and losing what little hair I had for six—maybe eight—months. Plus the joys of a stem cell transplant from the donated umbilical cord of a newborn baby.
Once again, the cancer fucked off. They told me it was unlikely it would come back. Clearly they knew jack shit because here we are again, four years later, meeting up like old friends. Well, frenemies is probably a more accurate term, or maybe straight up enemies.
“Luna love?” Mom’s voice filters into my pity party, and I blink, transported back into the sterile office of my oncologist. Her blue eyes, a match for my own, are filled with tears, and she looks so fucking tired my heart twinges.
She shouldn’t have to go through this again. I didn’t realize when I was younger, but not only has it been hard on her emotionally, she depleted her savings, sold our home, and took on massive debt just to pay for the first two treatments. I’m not sure we can even afford another round.
“I’m okay, Mom. I’m just shocked, I guess. I really thought I’d beaten it.” My eyes sting, but I refuse to let the tears fall. Not again.
She lets out a trembling breath, looking away from me, and it makes my throat tight. “Yeah, me too.” And then she speaks quieter. “Haven’t I sacrificed enough?”
What about my sacrifice?
The selfish thought fills my head, and I shove it down. She’s given up so much to try and help me get better, especially being a single parent, which must be hard enough. She’s got several jobs, working all the hours god sends just to pay off some of the debt, and now this.
“I’m sorry it’s not better news, Luna,” Dr. Tate says, his bushy, grey eyebrows drawn low. It must be a shit job most of the time, handing out possible death sentences. “But there are some new treatments available, some clinical trials starting up, and we can explore the options of a bone marrow transplant. So the fight is not over, not on my watch.”
I give him a weak smile, Mom’s shoulders rounded like she’s given up already.
“And how are we meant to pay for all that, Doctor?” she asks, her tone harsh, and I rear back a little in my seat, which is uncomfortable as fuck.
“Mom!” I scold, and a flush spreads across her cheeks as she looks down into her lap, at her clenched hands.
“I’m sorry. It’s the shock, I think. I’ll find a way to make it work,” she says, not looking at either of us.
“It’s okay. It is hard to hear after you’ve been through so much,” he assures her before turning to me and handing me a packet of information. “Here’s an overview of the treatments. They’re more intensive, so if you do go ahead, be prepared for more side effects. Though you will still have some good days. Have a read, and let’s meet again in a week or so, okay?”
“Thank you, Doctor,” I reply, taking the packet with trembling hands and getting up.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Mom mumbles as she gets up as well, not even looking at him before she walks over to the door and heads out of the room. Fucking rude. I don’t recall her having been so rude before. I guess it really must be the shock.
“See you,” I add, my cheeks heating as he gives me a sympathetic smile.
“See you soon, Luna.”
I book it out of there, my oversized, button-up shirt flapping behind me as I race after my mother.
“Hey! Wait up!” I yell, a little breathless because I still haven’t managed to build up my stamina to where it should be from the last round of treatment four years ago. “Mom!”
“What?!” she hisses, turning around, and I pull up short at her sharp tone and flared nostrils.
“What the fuck is your problem, Mom? I’m the one that just got given another death sentence, and no sexy grim reaper insight,” I sass, falling back on the dark sense of humor that I’ve developed in a bid to cope with all this shit. I think it adds personality to my character. Mom thinks it’s too much.
“Luna May Wilder!” Her face is the picture of shock, though the slight twitching of her lips tells me that she is trying to hold back a smile. We’re not so far apart in age—she had me when she was fifteen, so is only thirty-four now, a time when a lot of women just start having kids.
