Chapter 78 78
Elliot's POV
A few minutes passed, maybe five, counted by the ticking of the wall clock.
I got up then, opened the door calmly, and went down the stairs. At first, I pretended not to notice anything, but upon reaching the landing, I quickened my pace, running now, my face transformed into a mask of surprise and horror.
"What's happening? What happened?" I shouted, pushing through the people crowding in the living room. Some were crying, others talking on the phone with trembling voices, describing symptoms to emergency operators. They made way for me, and there I saw her: my mother on the floor, her body convulsing weakly, her face red and swollen, her lips blue. I knelt beside her, tears springing from my eyes with practiced ease.
"Mom! No!" I tried to lift her, my hands on her shoulders, but someone stopped me.
"It's better not to move her, Elliot. It could make it worse."
I shouted then, my voice breaking: "She can't breathe! She's choking!"
The crowd murmured, and a woman, one of her partners, asked: "Is she allergic to something? Do you know what's wrong with her?"
"Sesame," I replied, my voice a sob. "She's allergic to sesame. The injection! It's in the office!"
I jumped to my feet and ran back up the stairs, my heart pounding not from panic, but from pure excitement. I entered the office, closed the door behind me, and sat in the chair again, without the slightest effort to hurry.
I opened the drawer slowly, my fingers brushing the papers and objects inside. There was the injection, the EpiPen she kept for emergencies. I looked at it, turning it in my hand. I had replaced it that morning: instead of epinephrine, just water. Harmless, useless. I imagined her body downstairs, struggling for air, her lungs collapsing.
I took my time, counting to thirty in my mind, before getting up and running back.
I went down the stairs in a hurry, injecting the fake lifesaver into her thigh with dramatic force.
"Come on, Mom! React!"
Nothing happened, of course. Her breathing was a hoarse gasp, her eyes glassy looking at me with something that might be accusation, but it was too late for that. The ambulance arrived then, sirens cutting through the air like a wail.
The paramedics burst in, pushing people aside, and loaded her onto the stretcher. I insisted on going with her, holding her cold hand as they put her in the back of the vehicle.
"I'm here, Mom. I won't leave you."
The paramedics worked frantically, connecting monitors, injecting whatever they could, but I saw in their faces that they already knew: there was nothing they could do.
Her grip on my hand became limp, a mere reflex, and in a few minutes, chaos erupted again. They started resuscitation, compressions on her chest, artificial ventilation.
"Step back, sir!" they shouted at me, pushing me into a corner of the ambulance. Everything was a whirlwind: machine beeps, urgent voices, the smell of antiseptic and sweat. I watched, tears rolling down my cheeks, but inside, an icy calm. It was the end of an era, the beginning of mine.
Until one of them said it, the words hanging in the air like a sentence: "Fatal anaphylactic shock."
They stopped the efforts, covering her with a sheet. The driver slowed down, the sirens turned off. I sobbed louder, covering my face.
The ambulance stopped at the hospital, and I got out, feigning devastation while the doctors confirmed the obvious. But deep down, I smiled again. The path was clear.
The rest of the night was a blur of calls, consoling hugs, and funeral plans. I returned to the empty house, the party dissolved into mourning.
I went up to the office once more, sitting in the chair that was now mine. I closed my eyes, feeling not weight, but lightness.
The room was cold.
My mother's casket was in the center, dark wood polished to shine under the lamp light. The visitors had already left, leaving only silence and the echo of their condolences. I approached slowly, my steps resounding on the marble floor. She lay there, pale, motionless, her eyes closed forever, her hands crossed over her chest as if still trying to control something in death. I sat in the chair next to the casket, extended my hand, and took hers. Cold, rigid, lifeless. I squeezed it a little, as if I could wake her to yell at me one last time.
"I'm sorry, Mom," I whispered, my voice breaking in the silence. "Sorry for this. For everything."
It wasn't regret. It was more like closure, a confession I needed to let out before they buried her. I looked at her, remembering how she had been: strong, controlling. But I had to tell her. I had to explain why.
"I'm in love with Katherine Ellis," I said, my voice low, as if someone could hear us. "From the first day I saw her. She opened the door freshly bathed, her hair wet clinging to her nape, drops of water falling down her collarbone. Her gaze lost, but sweet at the same time, as if the world had beaten her, but couldn't take away that softness. Her tone of voice... that sound coming from her throat, hoarse from tiredness, but warm, inviting. I felt there was no turning back. What could have stayed as sexual attraction became something vital for breathing. Every time I saw her, every class, every look she returned, it was like air entering my lungs again. As I got to know her, I wanted to be closer to her. To that woman who was learning to smile again, who appreciated my company as if I were the only one who made her feel seen. She made me feel alive, Mom. She pulled me out of the monotony I had for a life. With her, I was real. I was fire. I was everything."
I squeezed her hand harder, feeling the cold seep through my skin.
"All this is necessary for the good of the love I feel for her. What I did... what happened at your birthday... was for that. Now there's one less obstacle. Without you, without your noose around my neck, I can be free. I can go for her. For our child, if it's mine. You can rest knowing I did it for love. For a love you could never have understood. I can already imagine your reaction if I told you, if I said she was the reason I asked you to send Andrew to Lisbon, that I became her stalker when rejected, that it drove me crazy thinking I wasn't enough and wouldn't have her again... That I only went to Lisbon to see her, to check that she was moving on without me, forgetting me. But no, what gave me the strength for all this is knowing she hasn't forgotten me, she's just stayed with the person she thinks she deserves and gives her stability. But who she loves is me. She's afraid, very afraid, I don't blame her. But I know she loves me and that the things I do to be by her side will be worth it. I know it."
I let go of her hand. I stood up, looking at her one last time. I felt no guilt. Only relief.