DIAGNOSIS: (FAKE) MARRIAGE.

I hardly ever go to the hospital, but there I was, with that awful blue paper gown crinkling unbearably under my thighs every time I tried to shift my weight. My legs dangled off the edge of the metal examination table, my ass was freezing, and a knot in my stomach made it impossible to swallow.

Across from me, Dr. Vargas reviewed my test results.

Vargas wasn’t a normal doctor. He was a sadist in a white coat. He thrived on other people’s terror. He had this sick habit of building thick, heavy silences before opening his mouth—which I guess explained why this clinic was cheaper than the rest. He flipped a page in my file. Looked up. Pinned me down with those small, clinical eyes.

One. Two. Three seconds. The wall clock ticked like a sledgehammer.

"S-so, what is it?" I asked, feeling the nervous stutter already hijacking my tongue. "Are you g-g-gonna prescribe me more iron, or should I start calling the local priest?"

Vargas tilted his head. An asymmetrical smile crept onto his face, like he was about to deliver the punchline to a macabre joke.

"Your body is failing in a truly fascinating way, Valeria. At this rate..." He took another perfectly timed pause, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. "I’d say you have a month to live. With any luck, you’ll make October's rent."

All the air left my lungs in one violent punch.

The white walls of the office seemed to shrink. The hum of the AC flatlined in my head. My brain, which normally operated at a thousand miles a minute, slammed into a reinforced concrete wall. It tried to process the word month. Thirty days. Seven hundred and twenty hours.

I hopped off the table. My knees buckled a little, forcing me to slap a hand against the freezing wall tiles to keep from eating the floor.

"A-a m-month?" I shrieked. My voice came out high-pitched and strangled. "I’m twenty-four! I haven’t even maxed out my credit card because I’m terrified of debt! D-damn it, Vargas, I’m a virgin! I can’t die a virgin, with a good credit score, and drinking green juice!"

The doctor let out a short, nasal bark of a laugh that bounced off the walls.

"Tragedies of modern life. I suggest you get your affairs in order and enjoy the days you have left."

I didn’t cry. The shock was a block of ice way too massive to let my tear ducts do their job. Instead of crying, my most toxic defense mechanism seized complete control of my mouth.

"Awesome," I spat, ripping the paper gown off with so much force I tore it in half. "Super. A-at least tell me if pine caskets are on discount for Halloween. Or better yet, cremate me. The thought of maggots chewing on my corpse makes me sick."

"Cremation is highly hygienic and saves space," he replied, completely unfazed, scribbling a note in my file with his overpriced black ink pen.

I dressed with trembling hands. Shoved myself into my worn-out jeans, my favorite band tee with the holes in the collar, and my dirty sneakers. Grabbed my canvas tote and bolted out of the office without looking back. I heard the receptionist yelling my name to sign the bill, but I majestically ignored her. What were they gonna do if I didn't pay? Arrest me? I’d be in a jar of ashes before the judge could hand down a sentence.

The city heat slapped me in the face the second I crossed the clinic's automatic sliding doors. The blaring horns, the shouting street vendors, and the smell of exhaust fumes and melting asphalt hijacked my senses. The metropolis was alive, pulsing, deafening. I, on the other hand, had just received my expiration date.

I walked down the sidewalk on autopilot, dodging pedestrians without seeing them. My mind was a tornado of catastrophic scenarios. One month. I wasn’t going to graduate college. I wasn’t going to adopt a dog. I wasn’t going to have my first time romantically (or disastrously).

I looked down at my right hand. I was gripping my plastic thermos, full of my celery, spinach, and ginger detox juice. I’d been chugging that bitter sludge every morning for six months, forcing it down because I read on some health blog that it purified your blood and extended your life.

"Internet scam bullshit," I muttered.

I raised my arm and, with every ounce of strength my rage could muster, fastball-pitched the thermos straight into the bottom of a metal trash can. The plastic slammed against the bottom with a loud thud, splattering gross green liquid everywhere. To hell with diets. To hell with the future.

A few feet away, a guy in a gray suit was sitting on a bus stop bench. He had a white cardboard box open on his knees. The wind blew in my direction, and the sweet, greasy, glorious scent of fried dough hit my nostrils, completely wiping out the smell of exhaust. It was a glazed donut, dipped in chocolate and dusted with white sugar. The guy was staring at it, like he was calculating the calories before daring to take the first bite.

Whatever shred of common sense I had left evaporated. Rules were dead. I didn’t care about cholesterol, manners, or basic human decency anymore. The filter between my brain and my actions had officially been unplugged.

I speed-walked over to him.

"I'm so sorry," I said, stopping dead right in front of his knees.

"Huh? About what?" the suit replied, blinking behind his glasses.

I plunged my hand straight into his cardboard box, grabbed the chocolate-smothered donut, and took a massive bite. Sugar exploded across my taste buds. I chewed desperately, feeling the sticky glaze smearing all over the corners of my mouth and my cheeks. It was the most delicious, artificial, unhealthy thing I had ever tasted in my miserable life.

"Hey, you're crazy! That's my breakfast!" the guy yelled, jumping to his feet and dropping his briefcase.

"P-put it on my tab, I only have a month to live!" I screamed back, my mouth completely stuffed with dough, spinning on my heels and breaking into a sprint.

I fled down the avenue, swallowing without chewing properly. I picked up the pace, laughing like a total psychopath. My fingers were sticky, my chest burned from the lack of air, and my legs felt heavy. I was terrified, yes—my heart was pounding so hard it threatened to crack my ribs—but for the first time in years, I felt ridiculously free.

I was going to live. I was going to blow through my savings, I was going to get blackout drunk on a Tuesday, and maybe I’d just pay someone hot to take my virginity once and for all.

I turned the corner into a narrow alleyway to take a shortcut to my apartment, a chocolate-stained grin stretching from ear to ear. And then, the violent screech of tires tearing up asphalt shattered my moment of liberation.