Fatal Read online

  Fatal

  S.T. Hill

  Published by S.T. Hill

  Copyright 2013 S.T. Hill

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Chapter 1

  I jumped back just in time to avoid the bumper of the steel grey BMW.

  "Ass..." I said, watching the expensive sports coupe race through the red light so quickly that the license plate shrunk to illegibility in moments.

  More carefully this time, I walked across the street. It was a four-laner, two in each direction. It was almost nine in the AM, and the drivers were anxious to get to work.

  Why did mom need this stuff right now? I wondered as I mounted the curb on the other side.

  The street smelled like a garage, with a tinge of ozone. A bit of rain would be nice, to wash everything away.

  The only pharmacy in our network within walking distance was almost eight blocks away. Eight city blocks, the broad sidewalks bustling the entire way.

  I would take the bus, but my pass expired two weeks ago. So here I was, beating my feet against the sun baked Pasadena sidewalk this fine Monday morning.

  As usual, the sky overhead was blue, not yet tinged by the smog drifting over from LA. 90% sun year-round in So-Cal. Very nice, if not for the constant need to reapply sunscreen.

  "'scuse me, young lady, you got any change?"

  I stopped, immediately regretting it. But my mind was so hung up on mom's prescription that I hadn't even noticed the homeless man leaned against the wall of an adult bookstore. A red neon sign forced into the shape of an overly buxom woman presided over the scene.

  "What?" I said. Why did he have to beg right by this place? My eyes kept skipping around, trying to find some place to land that wouldn't show me rippling abs or heaving bosoms.

  They finally settled on the hobo. He wore a scrabbly black beard flecked with grey over a torn camo-pattern combat shirt. His left leg ended in a stump, thankfully covered with a fold in his combat pants.

  "Change, got any?"

  I wanted to say no and just walk away. But I couldn't. I'd feel his eyes on me.

  So I reached into my shorts pocket, grabbed a few coins, and dropped them into his lap.

  "Thank you!" he said as I scurried away.

  I looked down at my watch. It was a cheap digital thing, some of the numbers already fading. After nine.

  It felt like I should be in school. My heart quickened, and nervous fingers tickled my spine. This time last year I was in AP American History with Mr. Jackson. He never liked tardiness.

  But I had been finished school for a year. And I could see the pharmacy up ahead.

  Electric chimes sounded when I pushed open the door. I closed my eyes for a moment as the air conditioning breathed down on me. The sweat on my forehead dried, and an involuntary shiver ran through me.

  The fluorescent light made my hair, pulled back in a hasty ponytail that morning, look the color of straw. Looking down at my hands, I thought it might be a good idea to let up on the sunscreen a bit. My skin was so pale I could see the network of blue veins running beneath it.

  I made the usual trip up through the Cold/Flu aisle. I didn't have the prescription on me, but the pharmacist knew who I was and what I needed.

  "Good morning, Stephanie," said Mr. Pravan. He was Indian, with a horseshoe of grey hair around his nut-colored scalp.

  "Morning," I said, looking back over my shoulder.

  Between all the aisles, I could see out through the plate-glass windows at the front of the store. Traffic was letting up slightly as rush hour began winding down. I might be able to make it home without being run over.

  There was also a Coke machine beside the door. I hadn't had any soda in a month. My mouth watered as I thought about grabbing a cool, red can. I knew it would begin sweating as soon as I got outside, coating the can in little droplets.

  But I couldn't spare the change.

  "Your mother called ahead. Her prescription is already prepared. That will be $53.05, please.”

  Again, I shoved my hand into the front right pocket of my shorts. I pulled out a wad of ones, fives, and a ten and put them on the plastic-covered counter.

  My breath caught as I watched him begin counting. I shoved my hand back into my pocket, digging.

  Mr. Pravan reached the same conclusion as me about a second later.

  "Miss Stephanie, you're two dollars and five cents short."

  I pushed my fingers deeper into my pocket, hoping that I really hadn't given that hobo all my change. But all my fingertips found were a few balls of lint that fell out onto the floor as I turned the pocket inside out removing my hand.

  I drummed my fingers on the counter, looking at the array of crumpled and torn bills I'd already presented him.

  "Can I give you the extra next time?" I asked.

  Mom needed those pills. My heart seemed to close up as I thought about facing her without them. She wouldn't yell; she never yelled. She'd just run her fingers through what was left of her hair, give me a gentle smile, tell me it was all okay, and then go suffer silently in her bedroom.

  Mr. Pravan's thick eyebrows knitted together. The chime rang behind me as someone else came into the store. I could hear their footsteps coming up the Cold/Flu aisle towards us.

  "Miss Stephanie..." he said.

  "Please?" I said, trying to whisper, trying to keep my eyes from darting over my shoulder to see who was there.

  The little white bag with the pills was right there in front of me where he put it. I could grab it, I knew. There were enough little white pills shaped like discs in there to keep mom relatively pain free for the next month.

  "The balance will be applied to your account," Mr. Pravan said, scooping the bills off the counter and sorting them into the register.

  "Thank you, thank you..." I said, grabbing the little white bag, relishing the feel of the paper crumpling under my grip.

  "Yes. Thank you for your business. Have a nice day. May I help you, sir?" Mr. Pravan said, pointedly looking over me at the person waiting in line.

  I'd have to squeeze in an extra shift at the diner somehow to make up the money, but that was for future me to worry about.

  All the way back home, I gripped the bag tightly. The paper was damp with my sweat when I slid the key into the lock to the apartment I shared with my mother.

  As soon as I went in, I could smell it. The sickness. It hung in the air, lingering no matter how long I left windows open or fans on.

  I put my keys in the little tray, a cracked porcelain soap dish with a faded floral pattern, on the table. I kicked my shoes off and went down the entry hall, through the kitchen, to the master bedroom.

  I found myself missing the kiss of the air conditioner from the pharmacy, and my stomach deeply regretted my brief flirtation with the soda machine.

  I'd heat up some Ramen in the microwave when mom had taken her pills.

  Mom needed it because it also had its own small ensuite washroom. The cloying smell of her illness thickened, and I had to remind myself that it wasn't actually the cancer causing it. No, it was an experimental new drug. Taken partially for its supposedly increased odds of killing the cancer cells, partially because the cost was covered by the pharmaceutical company performing the trials.

  "Mom?" I said, knocking on her bedroom door. It was a cheap, flimsy thing. Hollow, so that my rapping knuckles sounded like they were beating a drum.

  I gave h
er another few moments, then went inside. She was on the bed, as usual. The comforter and sheets were pulled up past her waist, despite the heat. I knew if I touched her hand, her fingers would feel like icicles.

  The small black and white TV on the stand in front of the bed was muted, some soap playing on the screen.

  The ivory drapes in front of the open window fluttered in the breeze, which did little more than stir around that cloying aroma. Her closet was open, revealing all the sun dresses she loved so much.

  She hadn't been able to wear any of them for months, choosing instead the sweater and sweatpants she wore at the moment.

  But her smile was still warm despite her bloodless lips. We had the same shape of face, I knew. Mom had been so pretty before all this, before the cancer started eating her from the inside out. But now the few wisps of grey hair (it had been blonde like mine last year, and thick) served only to make her high cheekbones more severe, to make her eye sockets like deep caverns.

  "Hey, Steph. Did Mr. Pravan get my message?"

  "Yeah," I said, sitting down in the white plastic lawn chair beside her bed. The dresser against the far wall held its own small pharmacy worth of pills. Thankfully, the pharmaceutical company and the insurance covered a lot of it. What they didn't nearly bankrupted us, however.

  Taking out the caramel-colored bottle from the bag, I handed it to her. She smiled at me.

  I hated the cancer. It had already taken my mother from me, leaving a withered husk behind. If I pulled her covers down, I know I'd see the long, thin sticks that used to be her legs. Her fingers were little more than skeletal claws, which tried to pop the cover off the bottle with little success.

  "Here," I said, taking it from her. I twisted the cap and pushed it off with my thumb. I took out one of the little white discs and offered it to her.

  "Get the pill cutter," she said, motioning at the dresser.

  "Mom..." I said, waving the pill at her. I grabbed the glass of water, half-full, from the nightstand and held that out as well.

  She grabbed my wrist. I had to keep myself from flinching at her touch. How could a person feel so cold? The guilt from feeling that way was far worse, though. What kind of daughter was I, who feared being touched by her own mother?

  "Steph, we've discussed this. Cutting them in half will save too much money to ignore..."

  "But the pain..." I said.

  Sometimes, when she thought I couldn't see or hear, she would cry and moan. I knew I couldn't come to comfort her when that happened. She would just wipe the tears away, force that smile back onto her face, and say nothing was wrong.

  "I like the pain. It lets me know I'm still alive. Now, go cut it in half."

  Putting down the glass of water, I went over to the dresser and sectioned the pill. What next? Would she ask for it in quarters? I wouldn't let her do that. I'd find some way to squeeze in extra shifts. If I woke a few hours earlier, I knew I could do it.

  I watched her take the pill half. Her eyes had always been a deep blue, and they remained one of the only things I really still recognized of the mother I'd known for my nineteen years of life. They seemed to smile at me, too.

  "Did you hear anything about those applications?" she asked.

  I'd almost pushed those from my mind. They were one reason we were so strapped for cash this month. She'd made me mail out college applications to half a dozen schools.

  I couldn't believe how much some of those places charged just for the privilege of sending them a few pieces of paper that they'd look at.

  Anyway, I wasn't really holding my breath. My SATs were pretty good (1600) but I'd been out of school for a year now, and had no extra curriculars to speak of at the moment. Besides, schools preferred students fresh off the high school assembly line.

  Some of my friends back in school had taken the shotgun approach, applying to dozens of places across the country. Even they'd only received a couple acceptances, and even then at their safety schools.

  "Don't know. I haven't checked the mail yet," I said.

  Not that I'd forgotten. Bills came in the mail. There was probably a second electric cutoff notice in there. I told mom that would happen if I wasted all that money applying to places I wouldn't get into, but she'd insisted. I'd thought of just lying and saying I'd applied, but I knew she'd want to see the rejections as proof.

  "You need to go to school," she said, shifting her icy hand over one of mine. My skin prickled with goosebumps, and I forced my arm to stay in place.

  It was an argument we'd had dozens of times since I graduated. She hadn't even finished high school herself, and there was a fiery determination within her that I, her only child, go. Sometimes, I thought she hated her disease even more than I did, simply because it kept me anchored in Pasadena.

  "Mom..." I said, hoping my warning tone was enough.

  "No! You listen to me, young lady. You need to go. Your whole life is on hold. How are you going to become the person you're meant to be without leaving home?"

  "You know I can't go, mom. Your disability checks barely cover the rent."

  She smiled, her dark eyes sparkling, as she squeezed my hand.

  "Just go check the mail. I have a good feeling today. Please?"

  I rolled my eyes at her in the way I knew she liked. This argument was so old hat it was basically a parody of itself, with the two of us just a couple of actors going through some well worn lines.

  So I kissed her on the forehead as I stood and went to check the mail. Our building was very old, some low-rise four-floor thing dating back fifty or sixty years. The halls were stained with a sickly yellow patina of nicotine, and the old carpet on the floor so thin you could see the wooden boards beneath it.

  Chapter 2

  Despite the smell of tobacco infusing everything, I took a deep breath. They'd delivered a new batch of pills last week. These ones made the cloying scent worse. It was almost a relief to get out of there, away from my mother.

  I made my way down the stairs. No elevators, here. My footfalls echoed up and down the stairwell as my fingers ran over the cool, rough rail.

  It wasn't that I didn't want to go to school, it was that I couldn't. I'd applied to a few before mom got her diagnosis, and even received an acceptance. But I'd put that all away when she told me.

  In some way, it was almost a relief. School represented change, moving forward into the next stage of my life. Staying with mom let me take my time, let me think about things.

  I pushed the door open to the ground floor and walked up the hall. Sunlight spilled in through the front entrance, much of it being greedily lapped up by the giant fern the landlord kept.

  The mail room was right beside the entrance. It was a bank of postal boxes, each little silvered door engraved with a room number.

  Sure enough, the power bill was on top. It was stamped "!!!URGENT!!!" in red ink. Let them keep their urgent. They'd send at least one more notice before they actually killed the electricity. Before then, I knew I'd be able to pick up some extra shifts somehow.

  I tossed out a few flyers for pizza places and discount manicures. Then my fingers jerked. There were two thick envelopes. I pulled out the top one. In the right hand corner was a circular sigil: the star-topped open Bible of UCLA, the scrollwork reading "Fiat Lux" below.

  I tore it open right there, my heart slamming in my chest even as my mouth went dry. I looked guiltily over my shoulder back into the entrance hall, but there was no one standing there impatiently waiting to check their mail and make me stop.

  It was an acceptance into their History program. My breath caught as I unfolded the thick letter signed by some dean at the bottom.

  What caught my attention even more was the scholarship. It seemed my entrance essay had caught no small amount of attention. My eyes widened at the number. Was that decimal point really in the right spot?

  I leaned back against the stucco wall, not caring as it scratched me through my shirt. I started sinking down, my knees unwilling to supp
ort my weight any longer. God, with that money, we could be okay. I could commute to LA from here... there'd be a health plan to cover the rest of mom's medicine.

  A million thoughts shot through my mind. It felt like I'd won the lottery.

  I saw the other envelope in the open mailbox then. I pulled it out with cold, shaking fingers. It had a square sigil in the corner of an open scroll. It was marked as from Redeemer College in some place called Hazelglen, Massachusetts.

  It took me a few frowning moments to recall even applying there. Mom had wanted me to apply to five schools, and I'd already found four, so I just picked that one off the list without really looking. I remember just changing the header information on my essay to UCLA and sending it off.

  I opened that envelope, too. Another acceptance. It offered somewhat less money than UCLA. The acceptance letter from the dean was on even richer stock paper than the UCLA one, however.

  Two acceptances? Both with scholarships? I had to be asleep, I figured. My legs jerked beneath me. I had to get upstairs and tell mom right away! God, she'd be so happy!

  It was all she ever wanted for me. This was it; I was finally going off to college!

  As I stood, a coldness gripped the bottom of my heart, dripping down into my empty stomach.

  It was true; I'd have to go away. I'd have to really start my life. There was so much after that, too. What was I going to do for a job? What if I met someone at school?

  The enormity of my future dropped onto my shoulders all at once.

  I looked down at the two envelopes representing the first step into that great abyss.

  Quickly, before I could change my mind, I stuffed the letter back into the UCLA envelope, then shoved that down into the middle of the blue recycling bin already mostly filled with junk mail.

  That left the acceptance from Redeemer College, a place on the other side of the country. A place I couldn't possibly go without leaving my mother entirely alone. I'd just explain that to her and stay. Maybe next year, I thought, she'll be better and I'll go. Until then, nothing would change.