Total pages in book: 170
Estimated words: 168980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 845(@200wpm)___ 676(@250wpm)___ 563(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 168980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 845(@200wpm)___ 676(@250wpm)___ 563(@300wpm)
“Can I skip it?” I ask Farrow.
“No, you don’t want to skip. The neurologist might order you either an MRI or CT scan to rule out other causes of your pain. Once those are clear, she’ll go through medications that might help lessen the frequency and intensity of your migraines.”
I swallow hard. “What if they aren’t clear?”
“You don’t need to worry about that,” Farrow says easily like it’s inconsequential. “Stay in the moment. No bad shit is happening until it happens, and it might never happen.”
I breathe in that philosophy. These days, I just feel like I have more to lose. More people will miss me if I’m gone.
More people need me than before.
My dumbass shouldn’t have gotten attached to more than just Thatcher before checking on my own health.
Farrow must see my stress. “The neurologist might not mention it, but there is something I can do.”
“What?” I ask. I’ll take anything.
“A Daith piercing.” He touches the inner cartilage of his ear. “There’s some evidence that this piercing helps with chronic migraines.”
“Sign me up.”
He smiles. “Okay, but come back to me after your appointment tomorrow. I’ll pierce you then.”
A lion roars from Ripley’s book and he lets out a sudden cry.
I almost laugh. “Someone definitely isn’t a Cobalt.”
Farrow nods. “I’m not sad about it.” His eyes meet mine once more. “Don’t worry about tomorrow, Banks. You’re doing the right thing.”
I’m doing the right thing.
It only took me seven years. It feels wrong to say I was scared, but what other excuse do I have? Tomorrow, I finally face a fear.
53
AKARA KITSUWON
Snow falls and covers the city streets of Philadelphia.
Bells rings from the temple, and I stand outside the opened doors. Family and friends dress in white and black as they gather around a casket draped with black cloth.
Even from back here, the smell of jasmine overpowers everything.
I look up. Yellow petals fall inexplicably from the sky off unseen trees, the Cassia Fistula flower native to Southeast Asia, and they flutter in gentle descent and pool at my bare feet. I stare ahead, through the opened doors. White flowers, my dad’s favorites, pile atop the casket.
Someone touches my shoulder.
I don’t see who.
They place a small flower in my hand. Petals made of birchwood shavings. I recognize the wooden flower immediately. I placed it under the casket before my dad’s cremation.
Laughter and smiles emit from the temple as everyone gathers to celebrate his life. For most people here, this isn’t the end of my dad’s life, but it still feels like it for me.
Monks chant, and I try to take a step towards the temple.
My feet can’t move.
I glance down. The yellow flowers are gone.
Snow compacts over my feet like cement. No.
My pulse spikes, and I watch as the temple doors begin to slowly close. NO! I try to scream, but my voice is soundless.
I can’t miss the ceremony.
I can’t miss it! I can’t!
You didn’t, Nine.
Then why am I living this nightmare?!
Tears prick my eyes, cold whipping around me.
I blink.
I’m inside.
But it’s not the temple.
I’m sitting on a metal chair on the outskirts of a boxing ring. Cellos play softly in the background—Bach. My mom stands in the middle, wearing a Mongkhon around her head. A symbol of respect and worthiness, gifted from her Muay Thai trainer. Handmade from rope and cloth. My mom always said her Mongkhon had special powers of protection that’d keep her safe. Before the fight, her trainer would take off the Mongkhon and place it on the top of her corner for good fortune. As a little kid, I believed in all of its symbolism.
Snow falls from the ceilings.
Damn snow. Flurries wet my cheeks like tears.
Seats fill around me and cheering crowds overtake and drown the classical music. My mom stands still like a statue, but she’s looking right at me. Blinking.
My chest rises and falls heavily. No.
Her opponent climbs underneath the ropes and enters the ring. Creeping up behind my mom with stealth.
“Mom, move!” I yell, this time sounds returns to my voice. “MOM!”
But my mom doesn’t listen.
She remains right there. Standing. Staring.
“MOM!”
The other fighter approaches quickly. In range for attack.
“MOVE!” I scream, spit flying. Lungs crushing with terror. It’s too late.
She lands a single deathblow to my mom’s face.
Lights out. My mom just collapses in a heap. Cheers around me are excruciating. People shake my shoulders in excitement like someone scored a touchdown.
I blink.
The room is pitch-black.
Sweat coats my skin.
My breath comes out in heavy waves, and I sit up only to careen into my knees. I cry. Choked sobs rumble through me.
Growing up, my dad and I would discuss my dreams. We’d talk through them, and each time, he’d tell me how intuitive I was. How, deep down, I know myself better than most. “Your conscience speaks to you, Nine,” he’d say. “Always listen to it.”