Chapter 7 Exposed Wounds
[Freya]
The words hit me like a slap. "What did you say?" I pressed closer to the door.
"You heard me," he said coldly. "That woman couldn't hold down a decent job, so she started selling blood to those underground clinics to pay for your precious medical school. That's how she got mixed up with those people who got her hooked on the stuff."
The words knocked the air from my lungs. My knees weakened as I leaned against the door. Mom selling her blood? For my education? I had always assumed her addiction began after the store was sold to pay off Dad's gambling debts—a way to cope with losing everything she'd worked for, not... this.
"You're lying," I whispered, but a horrible certainty was already settling in my stomach. It explained so much—the track marks she always hid, how quickly she deteriorated. Most addicts start with smoking or snorting, but Mom went straight to needles.
"How dare you!" My voice finally returned, shaking with rage. "Mom had a thriving corner store before you gambled away everything! She was doing just fine until you took out those loans against the business and lost it all at the casino. She lost everything because of you!"
"Get out!" I screamed through the door, slamming my palm against it. "Get out and never come back!"
I slid the metal cover over the peephole and backed away from the door, sliding down against the opposite wall as his footsteps and curses gradually retreated down the hallway.
I stumbled to the bathroom, staring at my reflection through tears. For a moment, I imagined swallowing every pill in the medicine cabinet, slicing deeper than I had before, just ending this unbearable guilt. It would be so easy to join her, to drift away into that same darkness.
But I couldn't. Who would fight for her if I was gone? Who would sit by her bed, hold her hand, make sure the nurses turned her to prevent bedsores?
And what if she woke up? What if tomorrow was the day her eyes finally opened? What if she called my name, asked for water, squeezed my hand back? I couldn't miss that moment—not after everything she'd sacrificed for me.
My mother needed me. Even now, trapped somewhere between life and death, she needed me.
I splashed cold water on my face and gripped the sink until my knuckles turned white. I had to keep going. For her. There was no other option.
The next day, I was sitting by Mom's bedside, checking my phone between vitals checks. My real estate agent had just texted: because I'd priced the apartment so far below market value, two potential buyers were already expressing serious interest. I needed to meet her after my shift to discuss the offers. It was happening faster than I'd expected—a small mercy in this nightmare. If the sale went through quickly, I could cover Mom's care for at least a few months while I figured out a more permanent solution.
I'd just put my phone away when I heard commotion in the hallway. Through the glass doors, I saw Marcus arguing loudly with the nurses.
"Where is she? I want to file a complaint! My daughter is refusing to help her own father!" he was shouting.
I stepped out of the ICU room, my heart sinking. "What are you doing here?"
"There you are," Marcus said, his voice carrying across the entire floor. "This girl right here is neglecting her responsibilities to her family! I'm her father, and she won't even help me pay my rent when I'm about to be evicted!"
Several staff members and visitors turned to stare at the scene unfolding.
"Stop this," I hissed, mortified. "This is a hospital."
"Oh, she's got money for her junkie mother, but nothing for her poor old dad!" Marcus continued, playing to the audience. "Is that how Green Hospital trains its doctors? To abandon their own blood?"
"You abandoned us fifteen years ago," I said through gritted teeth.
"I came back, didn't I?" he sneered. "And now I need help. But instead, you're wasting thousands on this lost cause." He gestured toward Mom's room. "We need to talk about this ridiculous waste of money you're doing."
"Lower your voice," I warned, acutely aware of other patients and families staring.
"I don't care where we are," Marcus said loudly. "You're throwing away thousands of dollars on a vegetable! She's never waking up, Freya. Time to face reality."
"Don't call her that," I said, my voice shaking with anger.
"Call her what? A vegetable? That's what she is!" Marcus gestured toward Mom's room. "And you're too stupid to see it. Just like her—always making dumb decisions that waste money."
"Stop it—"
"You know what? Maybe it's for the best," Marcus continued, his voice getting crueler. "At least now she can't drag you down with her anymore. Can't turn you into another drug addict failure like herself."
The words hit me like physical blows. "How dare you—"
"Face it, kid. Your mother was always worthless. A drug addict who couldn't even kill herself properly. And now you're going to bankrupt yourself keeping her corpse breathing. You'd be better off spending that money on something that actually matters."
Something snapped inside me. My hand flew across the space between us, connecting with his cheek in a sharp slap that echoed through the hallway.
Marcus's face twisted with rage. "You little bitch!"
He lunged forward, shoving me hard. I stumbled backward, losing my balance and hitting the floor with a painful thud. As I fell, my sleeve rode up, exposing the neat rows of cuts on my forearm.
Marcus loomed over me, his fist raised, but before he could strike, Dr. Salvatore appeared between us, catching Marcus's wrist in an iron grip.
"Touch her," Emerson said, his voice deadly quiet, "and you won't leave this hospital alive."
For a moment, I could have sworn his eyes flashed with an unnatural golden light. Marcus must have seen it too, because all the color drained from his face.
Two security guards rushed down the hallway, their delayed arrival explained by the code blue announcement I'd heard earlier. Emerson acknowledged them with a slight nod, still maintaining his grip on Marcus's wrist.