Abra Cadaver
a novel by:
SamanthaNicole

for:
Aimee

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“Death leaves a heartache no one can heal; love leaves a memory no one can steal.”

Anonymous

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--1--
Feeling Faint

“Oh my God! You did not just kiss my boyfriend, you whore!”

A thin, white finger gripped the remote and hit the ‘off’ button with an exaggerated sigh. “That’s enough of that.”

The hand fell limply to the bed, and a fan of red spread out across the pillow as the figure leaned back, pulling a ratty old blanket up to her chin. Her pale skin contrasted sharply with her goldenrod sheets, and the body beneath them looked starved.

In boredom, she stared up at the ceiling, her brow furrowed in concentration. Their last house – the one with the fireplace and white picket fence – had contained tiled ceilings that she liked to remove and cover in metallic wrapping paper, but this new one – with its old Victorian charm, and rickety stairs - only had popcorn ceilings, and in her boredom, she often resorted to forming shapes in the raised bumps. It wasn’t much in the way of entertainment, but then again, neither was a 24-hour Laguna Beach marathon.

The walls were painted a soft, pale yellow, and a strip of dandelions bordered the ceiling, bending gently in the wind. Not much had changed in the year since they’d moved in, both in regards to the home, as well as its inhabitants. The family hadn’t been home enough to do any serious renovations, and the girl remained as sick as ever.

Bright summer sunlight was streaming in through the window, and she rolled onto her side so she could see out. Her room overlooked the street, and she could just make out a tiny figure hunched over a large mound of green hosing, trying to give his station wagon a proper carwash. He seemed to be making little progress, because each time he managed to de-grime the vehicle, a car would come by, bringing with it a new cascade of mud and gravel.

Affectionately, the girl smiled to herself and sighed. She’d been planning on going swimming with a group of friends, but today hadn’t been one of her good days, and so she’d been forced to remain in bed, her bones tired and achy, body feeling as if it were on fire. It wasn’t unexpected, but today was just a little bit worse than usual.

Hereditary Chronic Pancreatitis (or HCP, as she liked to call it) often left her trapped at home, especially as time progressed. Growing up, she’d rarely been affected by the disease. Sure, she’d have an occasional stomachache, but not to the point where she couldn’t even move. Now, on a bad day, it was like having menstrual cramps, but multiplied by a factor of about a billion. Functioning like a normal human being became quite the impossible task.

Today, like many other days before, was a bad day, which had sent her to the bathroom multiple times to vomit, and had also forced her to remain in bed, tortured by a day-long marathon of teenagers living incredibly unrealistic lives. If they thought having their guy-friend flirt with “the enemy” was a problem, they really should be forced to deal with HCP for a few days; she had a feeling, though, that even something like pancreatitis wouldn’t deter them. When those girls wanted to go shopping, nothing stood in their way.

Reaching for the glass of water on her bedside table, she searched the drawers for a bottle of tylenol. When she popped off the cap, only to realize the bottle was empty, she groaned and covered her face with a pillow.

“Why?” she mumbled dramatically, thrusting an accusing finger in God’s direction. “Of all the days for me to run out, why today?”

God, however, seemed to be listening for once. As if on cue, the girl’s door flew open, and a bouncy woman in her late thirties hurried in, clutching something in her hands.

“Hi, honey,” she cooed, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. She didn’t seem to notice when her daughter cringed as the mattress sunk, causing the support beneath her stomach to give way, and a fresh wave of pain to wash over her. “I brought you some more medicine – I noticed you were running low the other day.”

“Thanks,” the girl said, accepting the gift and popping four pills into her mouth.

“Rough day?” her mom asked, wiping a stray curl away from her daughter’s face.

She nodded.

And for a brief moment, the smile on the woman’s face flickered, then came back full-force. It happened so fast that the younger girl wasn’t even sure she’d seen it, but decided not to think on it too hard, since a headache was developing. She could feel the dull ache pounding against the back of her head, and prayed the medicine would kick in soon.

Another glance out the window told her that her father had apparently given up on washing the car, and a moment later, loud pounding on the stairs echoed as he hurried down the hall, bursting into the room, determined to spread some good cheer.

“Eveline, look out!” he cried, extracting a tiny water gun from his belt and pointing it in the girl’s direction.

She squealed in protest as water rained down on her, trying to hide beneath the covers as her father circled around the bed, doing his best to soak her. His wife had evacuated the room, and now stood peering in from the hall, shaking her head and laughing as the two struggled with the weapon. Evie seemed to have given up on staying dry, because as she wrestled the water gun away from her father and retaliated, droplets trickled down her face, wet strands of hair sticking to her cheeks.

“Alright, alright, I surrender!” her father cried, sinking to the floor and holding up his hands in defeat.

Evie smirked triumphantly, letting the gun fall to the floor as she sank back against her pillow, exhausted, trying to ignore the pain radiating from her midsection. She really wished her medicine would kick in soon.

Grinning like a five-year-old, Brent Molloy pulled himself up and sat down beside his daughter, wiping wet strands away from her face.

“Hey, kiddo. How’re you feeling?”

He’d know she was lying, but that didn’t stop her from trying. “Pretty good.”

An eyebrow quirked, and he shot his daughter a severe look. “Evie, don’t you dare lie to me. How bad is it?”

“On a scale of one to ten?” She sighed. “Probably a four. Like I said, I’m fine. Nothing a little tylenol won’t fix.” She gestured grandly at the bottle her mother had just brought her.

Her father seemed unconvinced, and from the doorway, her mother frowned.

Evie sighed and reached out to pat her father’s hand. “You guys need to stop worrying so much. It’s nothing I can’t handle. Really,” she added, seeing the looks on both their faces. “I’m fine.”

But even as she said it, she knew it was a lie. Her pain level was much higher than a four, especially after exerting herself just a few moments ago. It was depressing how tiring something like struggling for a water pistol could be, especially when her father hadn’t really put up much of a fight. Her muscles were aching, and she felt as if she were on fire; she had a feeling some of the liquid trickling down the side of her face was more than just water.

Mr. and Mrs. Molloy exchanged worried looks, positive that their daughter wasn’t being entirely honest; she often tried to downplay the severity of her disease. They sometimes wondered if she was just in denial.

“We don’t have to go to the fundraiser,” Margaret said quietly to her husband. “We go every year; we can miss one every now and again.”

“No,” Evie said firmly from where she sat. “You guys have been looking forward to this all year! You can’t not go! I told you, I feel fine. Go get ready.”

But Margaret looked unconvinced. “Honey, it isn’t a big deal. We don’t have to go. If you want, we could rent Gone With the Wind and eat a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.” Her voice was almost pleading by this point. “Seriously. We don’t have to go.”

But if they didn’t go, Evie was going to go crazy. “Mom,” she said sternly, folding her arms across her chest and applying pressure downward (which also helped to ease the pain in her abdomen). “If you don’t go, I swear to God I will jump out this window.” She gestured to the bay window, drapped in lacey white curtains. “And it’s a long way down.”

Her parents finally got the hint and held up their hands in defeat.

“Alright,” her father said, smiling sheepishly. “Wouldn’t want you to land in a rose bush, or anything.”

“Like that would be the least of my worries,” she laughed. “Get out of here,” she said, shooing them towards the door. “Have fun, okay?”

She sighed in relief as the door clicked shut, rolling onto her side and clutching her stomach in pain. Over the years, she’d become an expert in maintaining her composure when others were around, but now her face crumpled, her brows knitted together as she muffled a groan with her pillow.

She stared down at her distended stomach and sighed. The medicine, she knew, wasn’t going to do anything to help her fight the pain today. She was on her own.

Feeling the prick of tears, she sucked in a deep breath and tried to shake it off, focusing intently on the ceiling.

“Rabbit,” she muttered in deep concentration. “Where is it?”

--X--

It was a gorgeous summer day. The sky was a sparkling blue, puffy white clouds drifting lazily past. The grass couldn’t have been greener if you’d colored it with a marker, and a bright yellow sun hung high in the sky, warming the large crowd of people overlooking the field of UCLA.

Men in varying shades of shorts and cleats jogged around the track, warming up for an afternoon of competition. A few stood in clusters, discussing tactics for relays, or swarmed the jugs of gatorade, and from the stands, parents put the finishing touches on their signs, or tested their blow horns.

It was organized chaos, as far as Travis Hoffman was concerned. From where he stood in the middle of the field, he could just make out his parents and younger brother, who were waving emphatically, hoping to catch his attention.

Grinning, he waved back, continuing to stretch. His event was up next, and he could see some of the other men in his heat heading towards the starting line. His nerves tingling in anticipation, he got up and jogged over, testing the starting blocks before settling in. He wished the guy next to him good luck, then rested his foot against the metal, his body tense.

“Go, Travis!” he heard someone yell, and quickly glanced up into the stands, where his parents and Jordan sat, holding up a large sign in neon green that read ‘Travis, Travis, he’s our man! If he can’t do it, no one can!’ All three were decked out in his school’s colors, and were waving excitedly, whistling and cheering.

He smiled to himself, then turned his attention to the man holding up the gun. As he raised his hand, the crowd immediately fell silent, leaning forward in their seats, waiting eagerly for the race to begin.

Travis could feel adrenaline coursing through his veins as he waited, tuning out the guys on either side of him. His chest felt tight, but he figured it was just from anticipation, and so he ignored it. Nothing was going to stop him today; he was invincible.

As if in slow motion, the man holding the gun began to squeeze the trigger. Travis rocked back against the starting block, and as a loud pop! brought the crowd to its feet, he pushed off and drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs with air as the wind tousled his hair, ringing in his ears.

His path was clear as he tore down the track, leaving the other men far, far behind. His feet pounded against the soft tar, the impact hardly jarring him as he rounded the first corner.

And as he sucked in another breath, he felt the dull ache in his chest turn into a raging fire of pain. He clutched at his shirt, pounding his chest with a fist, desperate to rid himself of the unwanted feeling, to finish the race. His track scholarship had gotten him accepted to UCLA, and this meet, this race, was going to help determine his financial aid for the following year. He couldn’t lose this, not when he was so far ahead.

But the further he ran without inhaling any oxygen, the harder it was to keep going. His vision began to blur, and the pain in his chest continued to worsen. He wasn’t even sure where the edge of the track was anymore, and he ran blindly onward, praying he wouldn’t run into the fence. Through the roaring in his ears, he could hear footsteps approaching, and desperately pushed himself onward. This should have been a cinch; he’d been a shoo-in to win! He was UCLA’s track star, the Speed Demon – he wasn’t allowed to fail!

But just as that thought crossed his mind, he saw an orange blur pass him.

“No!” he grunted furiously, ignoring the numbness sweeping over him.

--X--

The house was silent as Evie stumbled out into the hallway, headed for the bathroom. Her insides burned, and her face was contorted in pain as one hand wound itself around her abdomen, the other pressed against the wall, bracing her as she shuffled along.

“Not cool, body,” she muttered, flinging open the bathroom door and collapsing in front of the toilet. “Not cool.”

What little she had managed to eat that morning suddenly found itself swirling in the bowl, and dry heaves echoed in the tiled room. Her throat burned, and her breathing was labored. Weakly, she flushed the toilet, and poured herself a glass of water, which she ended up spitting back out because the moment it touched her raw throat, it began to burn.

Absently, she remembered her parents telling her to call if she began to feel ill, and so began the tedious process of maneuvering down two flights of stairs. A sharp, stabbing pain met her halfway, and she sank to the floor, panting.

From where she sat, she could see the kitchen, could envision the phone hanging from the wall, calling to her, willing her to make the effort, to dial her parents. Her mind egged her on, but her body continued to protest as she wrapped her hands around the banister, pulling herself down the remaining flight of stairs.

Stumbling into the kitchen, she could feel her strength waning. Her knees were shaking, and her legs felt a lot like jello. The phone was only a few feet away; all she needed to do was take a few more steps.

“You can do this,” Evie coaxed herself, focusing her hazy gaze on the wall. She was suddenly regretting telling her parents to go out. She knew she should have asked them to stay home, but she’d been convinced this bout of pain would pass, just like all the others. Unfortunately, it had only gotten worse. “Just five more steps, Evie. Come on. Come on!”

Mustering up every ounce of strength she possessed, she forced her foot to slide forward an indeterminable amount. When she glanced down, she saw that she’d hardly moved at all; maybe an inch or two at best.

And then another stabbing pain shot through her, sending her body into painful convulsions, and she crashed to the floor.

--X--

Travis tried to ignore the burning sensation in his chest as he shook off his muddy vision, pumping his arms harder, the finish line less than a hundred meters away. He fought against the fog settling over his mind, and strained his eyes against the dimness.

A few feet ahead of him, he could just make out the blurry edges of his competitor, and with a sudden burst of energy, pulled ahead, his feet pounding rhythmically against the track, easily leaving the man in orange behind. He couldn’t see the look of shock on his face, but a smile was plastered to his own, knowing there was no way in hell he could lose now.

But as he fell across the finish line, he felt his chest explode. Travis sucked in a breath and dropped to his knees, darkness totally encompassing him now. He could still hear, could hear his name being chanted from the stands, and tried to speak. However, his muscles ached to an unimaginable degree, and wouldn’t allow even the slightest twist of a smile. He stared unseeingly at the ground, clutching his chest, his body heaving.

“Yay, Travis!” girls cried from the stands, clapping and screaming.

Guys whistled, and he could’ve sworn he heard his dad and brother yelling things that were slightly inappropriate. He wanted to respond, to tell them his scholarship was secured with the race he’d just won, but he couldn’t even find the strength to hold himself up on all fours anymore, letting his body collapse to the ground, sprawling across the lawn.

He continued to blink, and just as his vision cleared, he caught a glimpse of the fans spilling out onto the field, his family at the head of the crowd. People were still screaming, but it sounded more desperate and worried now, and he vaguely wondered why. His entire body had gone numb, which was preferable to the pain he’d just experienced. His body seemed to be floating, and his mind was a jumble of thoughts as he tried to focus on the people now running towards him, horrified looks on their faces.

And then an overwhelming pain shot through his chest, worse than anything he had ever experienced. He went to suck in a mouthful of precious air, but nothing happened. Panicking, his eyes grew wide, and his fingers curled around a clumpful of grass.

What’s going on, he wondered desperately, as hands reached out and gripped his shoulders, rolling him onto his back.

“Don’t move him!” somebody cried, but it was already too late.

Not that it would have mattered, Travis soon realized. His entire body had gone numb again, and the last thing he knew was the weightless feeling of drifting off into oblivion. The last thing he laid eyes on were the horrified faces of his parents and brother, and he desperately tried to smile at them, to reassure them.

But it was too late.

Travis Hoffman stared unseeingly up at the blue sky, a gentle breeze rustling his hair.

In the silence that settled over the field, an anguished cry pierced the air, and then chaos erupted.

--X--

Evie pressed her cheek against the cool tile floor, her eyes staring at the underside of the kitchen counters. Her shoulder ached dully, having taken the brunt of her fall. Squeezing her eyes shut, she forced back the tears threatening to overtake her and overwhelm her already muddled brain.

“Phone,” she muttered, as if hoping the object had a mind of its own and would disconnect itself from the wall for her to use.

But as she laid there, consciousness slowly slipping away, she was flooded with fear. The pain coursing through her veins was unlike anything she had ever felt, and she wondered vaguely if this was what dying felt like.

Needless to say, she dismissed the idea almost immediately.

You’re not dying, she tried to convince herself. This has happened before. Maybe not this bad, but if you were dying, you’d know about it.

Though, as she lay there, her body convulsing in pain, she had to wonder. She had spent her entire life dealing with HCP, experiencing each and every one of the listed side effects. She knew the disease inside and out, and knew exactly what such a thing could lead to.

Death, however, wasn’t one of them. Not directly, anyway. Pancreatic cancer came first, or diabetes. So far as she knew, she wasn’t a diabetic, and she was pretty sure she didn’t have cancer. At least, she’d figured that, if she did, she’d have known about it. The pain she was experiencing now was like nothing she’d ever felt, but that didn’t mean she was dying, and it didn’t mean her disease had progressed to full-blown cancer.

It couldn’t be.

Slowly, inch-by-inch, she pulled herself towards the phone. From where she lay, she could see the spiraled cord hanging just inches above her face, and carefully wound her fingers in it and tugged. In a last ditch attempt to get help, she pulled the receiver towards her and pressed 9-1-1.

After a few seconds, the line picked up, and a woman began speaking in a very calm, professional voice.

“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”

But nobody responded.

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A/N: February 14th, 2008

First of all, I want to thank each and every one of you for giving Abra Cadaver a chance, especially when it means as much to me as it does. As of yesterday, the personal meaning of this story just went up. Ironic that, just as I start writing my cancer story, one of my best friends is diagnosed. Because of that, I want to draw your attention to the top of the page, just beneath the title. This story is now dedicated to Aimee, and if my updates aren't as frequent, you guys will understand why.

--X--

February 11th, 2008

As most of you know, I've been trying to write this story for about eight years now. I've made numerous attempts, but due to my habit of little to no planning, I never got very far. However, this time I've done the necessary research, and finally have the motivation.

I know I say I'm excited about every story I write, but this one holds a special place in my heart, both because I've been striving to write it for so long, and also because my aunt is currently dealing with breast cancer. While breast cancer doesn't make an appearance in this story, cancer in any form tugs at my heartstrings.

Because this story is so important to me, any feedback would be really helpful.

Also, as a side note, this title is only tentative. If I, or any of you, come up with something better, feel free to drop me a line.

My website has also been updated to include information on this story, as well as a new playlist and photos.

Thanks, guys, for taking the time to check this out! You're the reason I keep doing what I do.

Love always,
Sammy