Emma Borody was seventeen years old when they first told her the diagnosis, a skinny, nervous teenager lacking love or compassion. She had been living in foster care for the majority of her life and what little time she had spent with her real family had been so long ago that she didn't remember. She didn't remember what love felt like, what it felt like to belong somewhere, even for a day.

She had been hurting for months, but hadn't wanted to tell anyone for fear of their reaction. She was a worthless child, no one really bothered to cast her a second glance and her shattered ego caused her to keep her aching back a secret. Her foster mother of the month had taken her to a walk-in clinic after weeks of hearing Emma's complaints that her back constantly ached, though she hadn't been very happy about going. Medical visits cost money and Emma wasn't even her real daughter.

They had sent her back to her social worker when the doctor had called with her diagnosis. Bone cancer. She didn't have much time left. They didn't expect her to last the year, unless, of course, she could find some way to pay for the chemotherapy and radiation treatment. That was the same year Emma had forced herself to find a job, a meaningless job, anything that would pay for her medical bills. She wasn't going to die, she was determined not to die.

Four years later, in remission for the third time, Emma Borody stood outside the community college and stared up at the giant building. It sprawled before her, ominous and frightening, especially for the twenty one year old woman who had barely completed high school. She wasn't there for a class, a college education was only a dream to Emma. She was there in hopes of finding some kind of solace.

She pushed open the front doors of the college, her sneakers slapping loudly in the empty hall. Her jeans clung to her tiny form, accentuating her desperate need to put on some weight and her jacket hung off her bony shoulders. Her hair had grown back, thin black wisps falling against her pale skin. It wasn't much, wasn't very long, but it was hers. She wasn't as strong as would have liked to be and her hands shook constantly, a testament to her weakness, but she pressed on. Emma wasn't going to let her cancer get in her way of living.

"Can I help you?" a voice asked from her left and Emma turned to see an elderly woman sitting at an information desk.

"Yes," Emma said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm here for the support group."

The woman smiled and flipped through a notebook on the desk. "Which one, dear?"

"The cancer support group."

The elderly woman glanced up sharply and her face softened. Emma hated the look on her face, for it was one she knew well. It was the same look she'd seen on the face of the doctor who had delivered the news, all the doctors after that, telling her that her cancer had returned. It was the look the nurse had given her after telling her that the marrow transplant wouldn't work. It was the look on the face of her social worker when she'd returned from yet another foster home.

It was pity.

"Which room please?" Emma asked, her soft voice short and clipped.

"Thirteen," the woman said and pointed down a hall to her right. "Right near the end, dear."

Emma nodded her thanks and walked briskly down the hall, her hands clenched tightly at her sides. She hated pity more than anything because she felt as if she didn't deserve it. They were strangers and Emma still held fast to the belief that she wasn't worth their time. She'd never be worth the time of anyone. Any friendships she had once had deteriorated quickly after her diagnosis and love . . . forget about love. Emma would never let any man get close enough to ever love her. She was terrified that he would find out that she was dying and the only thing he'd ever feel for her was pity.

Her dark eyes flashed angrily as she searched for the room. Room thirteen . . . it stood before her, reaching for her, calling her. Emma relaxed immediately and for once in her life, she wasn't going to walk into a room looking like she'd bite the head off of any person that talked to her. She was determined to walk in the room, into the support group and take what it could offer her.

Her frail hand grasped the doorknob and turned it slightly, pushing the door inward. Many group members were already there and they looked up when she entered the room. Twenty one year old Emma Borody, black hair, blacker eyes, stood before them all, waiting their judgement.

One man smiled softly at her and the group went back to their hushed conversations.

Emma felt a gentle smile cross her face and she went across the room to take a place on one of the couches that were supplied to the support group. Her small body sunk into the couch and she shrugged out of her jacket, throwing it over the arm of the couch. In a few minutes the group session would start and maybe, for once in her life, Emma would find a place where she could belong.

~*~*~