Chapter 3 - The Unwelcome Guest
Vanessa dropped her shopping bags. A bottle of vintage Dom Pérignon shattered inside one of the tote bags, the bubbly liquid mixing with the smell of roast beef and fresh blood.
"What is this?" Vanessa demanded, taking a sharp step backward. "Mark, what is going on? Why is there blood on the floor? Is this some kind of sick joke?"
Mark didn't look at her. He was kneeling beside me now, awkwardly trying to press a silk napkin against my ruined cardigan, but he didn't even know where the port was located. He pressed too hard directly on the torn vein, sending a white-hot spike of agony through my collarbone.
"Don't touch me," I gasped, flinching away from his hands.
"Clara, stay still! You're losing too much blood!" Mark cried, his voice crackling with hysteria. He turned to Vanessa, his eyes wide and wild. "Vanessa, get out of the way! The paramedics are coming!"
Vanessa’s expression shifted from confusion to deep irritation. She pulled her fur coat tighter around herself. "Mark, I just flew in from Colorado! Lucas texted me that dinner was ready and that Clara was finally leaving the main house! What is she doing on the floor?"
Lucas snapped. He spun around on the floor, his face red and blotched with tears, and screamed at his biological mother with a venom I had never heard from him before.
"SHUT UP!" Lucas yelled. "SHUT YOUR MOUTH, VANESSA!"
Vanessa gasped, stepping back. "Lucas! How dare you speak to me like that! I am your mother!"
"YOU ARE NOT MY MOTHER!" Lucas sobbed, wiping his bloody hands on his pants. "She is! Clara is! And I just killed her! I pushed her!"
"You... what?" Vanessa blinked, looking between Lucas and the pool of blood.
Outside, the air-horn blasts and dual sirens of an advanced life support ambulance cut through the quiet Christmas Eve neighborhood. Red and blue lights flashed through the snow-dusted windows, painting the walls of the dining room in violent shades of crimson and blue.
Paramedics burst through the front door, carrying heavy trauma kits and a folding stretcher.
"Clear the area!" the lead paramedic yelled, pushing past Vanessa without a second glance. He dropped to his knees beside me, his gloved hands instantly assessing the wound. "We’ve got a ruptured central venous line! Uncontrolled thoracic bleeding! BP is 70 over 40 and dropping! Get the pressure dressing on now!"
They worked with terrifying speed. Shears cut through my knit cardigan, exposing the purple, bruised skin and the torn silicone line sticking out near my collarbone. Direct pressure was applied, making me scream into the oxygen mask they clamped over my face.
As they lifted me onto the gurney, Mark tried to grab my hand. "Clara! I’m coming with you! I’m coming in the ambulance!"
"No," I managed to whisper through the plastic mask, looking the paramedic straight in the eyes. "He is not my medical proxy. Do not let him in."
The paramedic looked at Mark’s bloody hands, then at the scene in the room. "Sir, step back. You're staying here."
"I'm her husband!" Mark screamed as they wheeled me toward the front door. "I'm her husband!"
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"I revoked it," I choked out, my consciousness slipping away as the cold night air hit my face. "Check my file... Dr. Thorne... revoked three days ago..."
The ambulance doors slammed shut, cutting off the sight of Mark standing in the driveway under the falling snow, surrounded by the flashing red lights of his own making.
