As he reached for his shirt, a sudden, searing pain exploded in his chest. It felt like molten metal had replaced his blood, burning through his veins with merciless intensity. The needle clattered to the floor as he clutched at his heart, gasping.
Something was wrong. This wasn't like the familiar pain of bruises or cuts. This was inside him, consuming him from within.
He collapsed to his knees, the cold tile offering no comfort against his burning skin. The pain intensified, radiating outward from his chest to every extremity. His lungs seemed to shrink, each breath harder than the last.
"Help," he tried to call, but only a whimper escaped his lips. Who would help him anyway? Who had ever helped?
Desperate to distract himself from the internal fire surging through him, he slammed his head against the floor. Once. Twice. A third time. Blood bloomed where his forehead struck the tile, but the pain inside didn't stop. It grew, feeding on his panic like a ravenous beast.
He dragged himself up, clawing at the sink for support. Bottles of soap and disinfectant crashed to the floor. The mirror caught his reflection again—face contorted, eyes bulging, veins standing out against his neck like dark rivers.
"HELP ME!" This time the scream tore from his throat, raw and primal. He knocked over the cabinet, sending its contents scattering. Glass shattered. Pills spilled across the floor like tiny colorful planets knocked from their orbits.
His fingers found his throat, squeezing as if he could physically extract whatever poison coursed through him. The edges of his vision darkened, tiny black spots dancing before his eyes. Blood dripped from his nose, spattering the white tiles with crimson constellations.
Through the haze of agony, he heard the bathroom door open. Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.
"My, my. What a mess you've made."
Madam Theresa stood in the doorway, her tall figure silhouetted against the hallway light. Her habit was perfectly pressed as always, the silver crucifix at her chest catching the fluorescent glare. Her thin lips curved into something approximating a smile.
She stepped into the bathroom, careful to avoid the blood and broken glass. With surprising strength for her age, she squatted beside him, one bony hand reaching out to stroke his sweat-drenched hair.
"It seems the medicine has finally taken effect," she said, her voice soft as falling snow. "I was beginning to worry it wouldn't work."
Elias tried to speak, but blood filled his mouth, choking him. His questioning eyes found hers.
"Oh, you're wondering about the medicine?" Madam Theresa's fingers continued their gentle stroking, a mockery of maternal affection. "It wasn't medicine at all, dear boy. When you came to me this morning, feverish and weak, I gave you poison instead. Quite a lot of it, actually."
The world seemed to slow. Through the roaring in his ears, her words penetrated like ice picks.
"Your mother paid me quite handsomely," she continued, her voice taking on a dreamy quality. "Not just for taking you back all those years ago—though that was substantial—but for ensuring you wouldn't reach adulthood. 'If the little vermin survives to sixteen,' she said, 'he could make legal claims against my husband's estate.' We couldn't have that, could we?"
She glanced at her watch, frowning slightly. "I had hoped you'd die quietly in your bed. It would have been easier to explain. But you've always been difficult, haven't you, Elias? Never knowing your place."
He tried to crawl away from her, but his limbs no longer obeyed him. The pain had spread everywhere now, a symphony of agony playing in every cell.
"And do you know what's truly magnificent?" Madam Theresa leaned closer, her breath smelling of communion wine. "Your organs will fetch a handsome price on the black market. Young, relatively healthy despite your circumstances... you'll finally be of use to someone."
She stood, brushing invisible dust from her dress. Elias lay at her feet, convulsing weakly.
"We're all sinners in this world, Elias," she said, her voice taking on the cadence she used during Sunday sermons. "Some of us just happen to profit from our sins. Your mother sinned in creating you. I sin in destroying you. And you..." She pressed her foot against his cheek, forcing his face against the cold tiles. "You sinned simply by existing when you weren't wanted."
With deliberate force, she stomped on his face. Pain exploded anew, but it was almost lost in the greater agony consuming him from within.
"Now die," she whispered, stepping back to watch.
As consciousness began to slip away, tears leaked from Elias's eyes. Not tears of fear or even pain, but of a profound, bottomless betrayal. The one person who had occasionally shown him kindness, who had wiped his tears when he returned from seeing his mother, who had promised him that someday he would find a family—she had been his executioner all along.
His final thought wasn't of escape or revenge. It was simply confusion—why make him suffer? Why not a quick death? Why this prolonged, excruciating exit from a world that had never wanted him?
As darkness claimed him, he felt something shift inside—not physically, but deeper. Something fundamental. If he survived this—and he knew he wouldn't—he would never again believe in kindness. Never trust a gentle word. Never accept the world as anything but what it had shown itself to be: a cruel machine that crushed the weak and rewarded the wicked.
In his final moments, as his heart struggled against the poison, Elias did something he hadn't done in years.
He smiled.
And somewhere in the universe, something noticed.
His final thought wasn't of escape or revenge. It was simply confusion—why make him suffer? Why not a quick death? Why this prolonged, excruciating exit from a world that had never wanted him?
As darkness claimed him, he felt something shift inside—not physically, but deeper. Something fundamental. If he survived this—and he knew he wouldn't—he would never again believe in kindness. Never trust a gentle word. Never accept the world as anything but what it had shown itself to be: a cruel machine that crushed the weak and rewarded the wicked.
In his final moments, as his heart struggled against the poison, Elias did something he hadn't done in years.
He smiled.
And somewhere in the universe, something noticed.
His final thought wasn't of escape or revenge. It was simply confusion—why make him suffer? Why not a quick death? Why this prolonged, excruciating exit from a world that had never wanted him?
As darkness claimed him, he felt something shift inside—not physically, but deeper. Something fundamental. If he survived this—and he knew he wouldn't—he would never again believe in kindness. Never trust a gentle word. Never accept the world as anything but what it had shown itself to be: a cruel machine that crushed the weak and rewarded the wicked.
In his final moments, as his heart struggled against the poison, Elias did something he hadn't done in years.
He smiled.
And somewhere in the universe, something noticed.