Another long week stayed in the hospital; relatives came and went like the wind; friends stopped by, but I could never be content with it. Evenings pass with a quiet kind of boredom. My family (especially my parents) did everything, except change fate, to make me smile. One night, my dog, Bento, a Siberian Husky, came and got comfortable on my bed. That would've been fun if she hadn't stomped and pranced around my stomach. That mishap resulted in a stern, depressing chat with my doctor. She warned that my body needed a lot (and boy, did she stress a lot) of rest. 

        I passed my sluggish days watching game shows and eating Jell-O. A few evenings later, after my family had returned home and no friends had shown up, I got a different kind of visitor at midnight. It was someone who hadn't appeared in over a month. From the shallow corner of the gloomy hospital room, Apollo came and basked in the moonlight from my open window curtains. His lightly tanned skin glimmers radioactively. One might say he's too beautiful for his good. 

        "Been a while, Violet," he sits on the chair the doctor used last week when she informed me of the horrid news. 

        His presence doesn't faze me anymore. "Apollo, I thought you'd disowned me," I reply flatly, shifting in the itchy, paper-thin sheets. "What made you return?" 

        "Well, I heard about what was going on," he stops, staring into the unnerving darkness. "I couldn't just let these doctors kill you." 

        Barely a face, hardly a reaction; at this stage, I might as well unplug every device hooked up to my dying body and let death embrace me. I'm sure it would at least stroke my cheek and say, "You did well." 

        Apollo gently pushes his feet against the ground, laying his hands on the bed. "Wow, I expected a little more feedback." He moves the hair matted to my pale, shiny forehead away. "You okay? I mean, besides getting your stomach ripped open–" 

        I shoot him a disrespect-me-one-last-time-and-I'll-strangle-you glare. "Contrary to popular belief, I'm doing poorly. I feel like shit." I whine, turning over. "Hey, Apollo?" My tone changes suddenly. What I need is a friend, regardless of their species. "May I have a hug?" 

        He jolts, surprised. "Me? I thought you hated me?" 

        "Hate is a strong word," I sigh, sitting up. "Dislike is what I'd use. I'm just sad and in a frenzy. Anything is better than nothing."

        Apollo shakes his head, "Fine, if that's what the little fawn requires." Gingerly and wobbly, as if this is his first time, he pitifully wraps me in an awkward hug. It sways on the edge of atrocious. Like he's whispering, "Save me, I have no clue what I'm doing. Teach me the way." Not much to fault him on, though he delivered when it mattered the most, so my respect for him increased tenfold. I've got to give the parasite props for holding such a sick and ghostly pale young ghoul (I might've hesitated to touch me). Aside from the looming dread of awkwardness hanging benevolently in the air, Apollo's warm and surprisingly soft. Like a spring lily. "Sorry," he whispers in my ear, drawing back. "There's a first time for everything, huh?" 

        "It's fine," I say, smiling as best I can with numbing medications pumped into my bloodstream. "You made me happy, err, somewhat." I correct myself before I say something regretful. A strike of perfectly timed lightning reveals a secret I've long overlooked. In the shadows, strategically behind Apollo, is the illuminated figure of a woman. Immediately, I shriek and point. "Watch out!"

        "Oh, right," he sighs in more of an annoyed way. He takes one step to the right, allowing the concealed girl to emerge. "This is my partner, Minerva." 

        She bows, showing no emotion whatsoever. "Nice to meet your acquaintance." Her hair, preciously thick and adorably pink, flows like an apron against her backside. "I'm here because you need emergency help. When I first heard your story, you sounded like a stereotypical human, stupid and obnoxiously headstrong." Minerva scoffs, "Apollo was worried about his host, so I got dragged here." Her face darkens into a lunar eclipse, and it's hard to tell where what goes. Is that her lips curling up, or was that her eyelashes? 

        Ouch, talk about knocking my ego down several notches. "Your girlfriend?" I ask, having no reason not to embarrass them. After all, she'd made terrible accusations. 

        Apollo flashes a toothy grin (his teeth are immaculate) as if to say, "Hell would have to freeze over before I'd give her the light of day." Without saying a single word, he and Minerva fight with their minds. Stares, glares, fingers flipping, mouths mouthing (I pray that's an appropriate word to use here). Then, after thirty seconds of pure torture, Minerva sits next to my chest.

        "No, he reminds me of how much he hates women who are stronger than him." She bites her nail, "Seriously, no, we're siblings, sadly. Not biologically, of course." 

        "Anyhow, we've devised a makeshift invitation to propose," Apollo says, clearing his throat peculiarly. "You can say no, but your survival decreases dramatically." He speaks as if the world rests on my decision. If yes, then I'll live to fight another day. If no, then bye-bye, Violet Gwendolyn. Off to fiery flames to be with your doomed relatives. Yanked by the collar and tossed into the roaring flames. 

        Minerva picks up a vase of dying flowers, turning it upside down. "You and whoever else you want can come too. We need to proceed quickly." The water splatters on the floor into a giant puddle. 

        "What's with the dire attitude? I'm not about to combust." I laugh out of respite than anything good. I want to feel like I'm being funny and know nothing sickening will befall me. "Right...?"

        Apollo swivels in the circular stool, squeakkkkkk. "Ever heard of an Eater?" 

        "A what?" I retort, confused and anxious. "The what now?" My eyes are the size of a monitor, and there's an extra emphasis on getting the answers I seek. 

        This time, Minerva takes the helm, snatching it right out of Apollo's grasp before he can decide how to answer. "Ahem, the Eater is a little creature with enough power to destroy planets."–she rests her head on my stomach– "In other words, you're a pregnant teen." 

        First off– that makes no sense! How do being an Eater and being pregnant go hand in hand? Second, I swear to God, don't you ever touch me again. Don't belittle me because I got attacked! It's not like it was my fault. People are always making these issues out to be from something I did. She's my sworn enemy, an ergo dynamic maniac. She's a brilliantly polished monster from the pits of hell. Even without knowing much about her except for the fact that 1) Noah would instantaneously fall in love with her synthetic hair color and 2) she's quiet, I can tell Minerva is a conniving devil. A being capable of forcing her way on anyone she wants.  

        "Don't scare her like that. It's like telling someone they have a month left to live without as much as an explanation." Apollo shakes his head, "I knew you were direct, but not to this extent." 

        Minerva keeps her head pressed into my belly, reminding me of a nurse checking for a pulse on a soon-to-be mother. That thought alone was enough to keep me shivering. 

        "When the world faces total annihilation, I tend to show my true colors," she moves upright, "Besides, doctors are nothing more than arrogant trash bags." Minerva leans down on me again. "Willing to help until the bill goes beyond paying." 

        "Woah, talk about non-refundable." Apollo jokes, staring at her like she's the star of an outrageous sitcom. 

        Minerva, straining her ears against the outside of my swollen stomach, hardly reacts. She slides her hand up to her mouth and gasps dramatically. "Oh my golly, I wonder what's non-refundable." 

        "No one asked for your opinions on this controversial topic." Apollo gestures to me, which I find slightly uncomfortable. "Have you asked how Violet feels?" 

        "Do I care?" Minerva snaps, "She's another lowly human, don't get attached to her."

        Apollo fidgets, "I'm not. Why are you so against relationships?" He drops his voice, withholding a dangerous sneer. "You're quite the mood-killer today." 

        "Great, we have an angry Apollo on our hands." She brushes her cheek, pushing her luck to greater heights. "You have such a fragile ego, typical men." 

        Hold on a second, are they fighting? Is it normal for parasites to argue? I've got to stay low and invisible. To save this conversation from heading south, I toss my pillow at Minerva (I'm on Apollo's side). It bounces off her head and plops to the floor. Well, whatever plans I had to use the pillow drove me off the side of the same cliff as my hopes and dreams. Kaboom! No bikini-clad runway model, Violet. Not in a thousand years. That dream got bombed the moment I realized what I looked like. A circular pancake. Terrifying.

        Minerva cocks her neck to the side, "Violet, please tell me you're not the one who did that." 

        The best thing to do in this scenario is to play stupid. "Do what? I'm in agony over here. Do you think I have enough energy to throw a hefty pillow?" I exaggerate how much worry I put into my tone, sure to get the message across. It'll flash in bold letters on the screen: VIOLET IS WEAK, I REPEAT, VIOLET IS WEAK. DON'T MISTAKE HER FOR A MUSCLE MOUSE. 

        "You have the strength to stuff your mouth with sweets; what's the difference?" Minerva shoots back, unafraid to ruin the tiny fragments that remain of my pride.

        Talk about depressing. I slink into my covers, handing the speaking rights to Apollo, who snickers solemnly in the chair.  

        "Nice," he says, continuing. "Anyway, we need you to come with us to the Tether. What do you say?"

        What do I say? I need a couple of years to think it over. OH. That reminds me, I don't have a few years left. I have weeks.

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        Last night, when Minerva and Apollo surrounded me like worried cousins, our chat ended abruptly when a nurse stopped by for her routine visit. Apollo was talking about how the surgeons in the Tether were eons more advanced than the Neanderthals we had here. The moment the door handle creaked, both vanished into thin air. Ah, a spectacle indeed! The following morning, the nurse told me I was peering at the corner and laughing voraciously. Like I'd just lived an episode of Rick and Morty. 

        Let me tell you– that was a hell of a motivator to get out. When I found out she let me carry on for ten minutes after discovering me, I vomited over the bed. The killing punch came when she mentioned a name I kept referencing in my heightened state. "Your daughter," (she was speaking to my parents), "And I quote word for word, said 'Oh Apollo, you're so funny.' We should make sure she gets on antipsychotic meds."

        The only logical thing I could think of to do at that moment was groan in suppressed embarrassment. The nurse left 15 minutes afterward when my dad promised they'd have a deep conversation about my "hallucination."

        Fast forward to now: I, Violet, am desperately trying to ward off the attacks of her necromantic parents. They shower me with questions: who's Apollo? Is he alive? Have you had sex with him? Bit by bit, stone by stone, they chip away at my invincible armor.

        "I was just high on the morphine or whatnot," I croak timidly, hoping they'd back off my butt. But, knowing my parents, especially mine, they'd grip it tighter. They'd thwart any and every plan to split the conversation. "I'm sorry for scaring you guys; can we change the flow now?" 

        On cue, Noah waltzes in like this is his musical number. "Hey, big sis, how 'ya feeling?" He smiles with an unfamiliar hue, making fun of me. He's uncertain, an unreadable final boss with an enormous gauge of health points. One-strike, two-strike, three-strike, it doesn't make a dent. He stands victorious over my drooping body, laughing and flicking the nape of my neck. "Remember Brittany?" 

        From around the corner, a small female figure comes excitedly into the room. Brittany's signature sloppy, unkempt, red hair shakes and jiggles with each exaggerated movement. Her locks flow, long and free, into stacked curls that beg for attention. Good Lord, she walks like a flamboyant runway model, too self-absorbed with herself to realize how inappropriate and tempting she can be. Wide and overzealous eyelashes frame a picture-perfect feminine face. Shapely with a splash of plump. The epitome of what every woman prays to be like (in the complexion department.) 

        "Yo," a grin stretches her face out horizontally. Her itty bitty freckles dance and swirl. "I've missed you!" It doesn't take her much effort to lean over and clamp her hands gracefully around my neck. Light and practiced, she's a trained natural. 

        Nonchalantly, I gaze at her outfit. Casual, no doubt about that, but was she trying to impress someone? Oh no, Noah, stay on guard, don't allow the devil any footroom. Brittany wore a solid blue skirt with a purposely skimpy sports bra (that left little sighs of secrecy). She needed to learn the rules of modesty. Her seasonally tanned stomach was out for the world to gawk aimlessly at. It's an indirect jab at me as if calling me out, laughing while flaunting her ego. "This is what a model looks like, sweetie." Brittany would say, casting judgemental stares. 

        "Brit!" I murmur, awkwardly chuckling. I'm terrible at talking to people I haven't seen in six months. Noah knew I hated settling into these situations, but what could I or anyone else do? Jack squatch, that's what. I grab onto her bra straps as she embraces me tenderly. 

        Brittany begins talking at the speed of sound about things I've missed, places I need to check out, and foods begging to be conquered by yours truly. As she gets comfortable indulging me in pointless BS, Noah seems to be engrossed. I understand where this pervert is staring, hoping to take his relationship with her to third base and beyond the physical limitations of this universe. I'm not okay with that. She's a pick-me girl. Brittany is someone who feeds off the desires of men. 

        I turn to Noah, snapping my finger to ensure his eyes are on me. Then, I mouth, "We need to talk."