Chapter 5 - The Weight of Regret
Lucas walked into the room as if he were stepping into a minefield.
He was wearing the same clothes from Christmas Eve—his pants still stained with my dried blood, his eyes swollen, bloodshot, and sunken deep into his skull. He looked like a shell of the confident, cruel boy who had shoved me forty-eight hours ago.
He didn't dare come near the bed. He stopped near the door, his hands trembling violently at his sides.
"Clara..." his voice broke on the first syllable.
"Don't come any closer, Lucas," I said quietly, keeping my tone even and flat. "I don't have the energy for drama."
Lucas fell to his knees right there on the linoleum floor, burying his face in his hands, his body shaking with wracking, silent sobs.
"I'm sorry..." he wept, the sound pathetic and hollow in the sterile room. "I'm so sorry, Clara... I didn't know... I swear to God I didn't know you were dying! I thought... Dad said you were just lying to get attention because Vanessa was coming!"
"Your father lied to you," I said softly. "But you chose to shove me. You chose to call me an unpaid maid. You chose to spit on five years of my life."
"I was stupid! I was angry!" Lucas sobbed, crawling forward on his knees until he was a few feet from the bed. "Vanessa told me if I made you leave, she would move back in! She promised we would be a real family again! She promised she would buy me the car for my eighteenth birthday!"
I looked down at him with pity, but no warmth. "Where is Vanessa now, Lucas?"
Lucas choked on a breath, wiping his nose with his sleeve. "She... she left. When the police came to interview Dad on Christmas morning, she packed her bags and took a taxi to a hotel downtown. She said she wasn't getting dragged into our trashy drama."
"And your father?"
"He's downstairs..." Lucas whispered. "The bank froze his corporate cards this morning. He couldn't even pay for the parking garage. The sheriff served eviction papers on the house. Clara... we don't have anywhere to go."
I leaned back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling monitor.
"You have thirty days, Lucas," I said calmly.
Lucas looked up, his eyes wide with terror. "Thirty days for what?"
"Thirty days before my body finally gives out," I answered, looking him dead in the eye. "And in those thirty days, you are going to watch the house you grew up in get liquidated. You are going to watch your father go through the bankruptcy courts. And you are going to learn what it means to be truly alone."
"Clara, please!" Lucas begged, reaching toward the bed before pulling his hand back as if burned. "Let me help! Let me stay here and take care of you! I'll do whatever you want! I'll clean, I'll cook, I'll take you to chemo!"
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"It's too late for chemo, Lucas," I said softly. "The doctor stopped the treatment yesterday. My body can't take any more."
The monitors beeped steadily as the reality hit him like a physical blow. The boy who had spent five years taking my presence for granted finally realized that no amount of tears, apologies, or begging could buy back the time he had wasted.
