Chapter 7 NO LIFELINE

Constantine’s POV

It has been three days since I ran away from that monster. Three days of hell for me, like the heavens just decided to open and pour out suffering on me. 

I come home after a very long day of doing menial jobs and walking home. As soon as I get home, my body aching from practically trekking long distances, I find my landlord already there, standing outside my apartment like he owns the sidewalk too. Two thick-necked men hover beside him. Their arms are crossed, and all my things—everything I own—are shoved into black garbage bags and dumped on the pavement.

My clothes. Books. Shoes. The framed photo of my parents from before things broke so badly I can’t even remember when it started. My gaze shifts from him to the big men beside him and I blink, waiting for some sort of explanation even though I know he doesn't owe me one. 

He doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t even pretend to feel bad. He just hands me the eviction notice like it’s a receipt and tells me I’ve got thirty minutes before he calls the police.

Thirty minutes.

I just stand there, staring at my life scattered across dirty concrete, and wait for something to hit me. Anger. Panic. Anything.

Nothing does, which is almost funny.

There’s only this empty ache in my chest. I feel…hollow. Like something important has already died and my body hasn’t caught up yet. I stand there helplessly,  a tear running down my eyes, watching as he leaves with his big men. I take a shaky breath as my eyes shift to my luggages scattered all over the floor. I fight back the urge to sob. That night, I end up on Ivy’s couch. It’s lumpy and so strong and stringy. Her bed wouldn't hold two people, so I offered to take the couch, so here I am. She makes me tea, talks softly, keeps saying everything will work out.

But she won’t meet my eyes for too long.

I see it anyway. I see the pity in her eyes and  even worse? The relief. Thank God it’s not her.  That must be what is running through her mind. 

The next day, the nursing home calls.

‘Miss Windsor,’ the administrator says, clipped and polite in that way that means she’s already done caring, ‘we’ve been more than patient.’

My stomach tightens. ‘We can no longer keep your mother without payment. We’ll be transferring her to a state facility by the end of the week.’

‘No! Please,’ I say, the word tearing out of me. ‘Just give me a few more days. I’ll get the money. I swear.’

A pause. Long enough for shame to sink in.

‘That’s what you said last month. And the month before.’ Her voice doesn’t soften. Not even a little.

‘This is a business, Miss Windsor. Not a charity.’ The call ends. Just like that.

I sit there on Ivy’s couch, my phone still in my hand, fingers shaking so badly I almost drop it. A state facility. One of those places where people disappear quietly and they don't even care about their patients. Where my mother who used to sing while she cooked, who danced barefoot in the kitchen will fade into a hallway where the living conditions will be horrible and then neglect her. Oh God. I couldn't let that happen. 

I think about my dad next. I think about calling the hospital next. About asking how my father is doing. I don’t. I can’t take one more voice telling me I’m behind. That I failed. That I wasn’t enough. So I do the only thing I know how to do when reality gets unbearable.

I start looking for work. So, I go to six interviews wherever I find a vacancy. 

Six.

The first is at a law firm. It is a receptionist position. I show up early, wearing the only outfit I own that still looks professional if you don’t look too closely. The woman interviewing me scans my résumé and frowns.

‘Harvard Law,’ she says. ‘Why are you here then?’

‘I need a job.’ I say, my heart thumping.

She studies me like I’m lying. ‘Why aren’t you practicing?’

I swallow. ‘I have some financial things I need to resolve.’

She sets my résumé down carefully. Like it’s dirty. ‘We’re looking for someone who’s committed. Not someone who’ll leave the moment something better comes along.’

‘I won’t—’

‘Thank you for your time, Miss Windsor.’

The second interview is worse. The third somehow manages to be humiliating. By the fourth, I’m desperate enough to apply at a diner that smells badly and is so poorly maintained. The manager barely glances at me.

‘You’re overqualified,’ he says and his eyes scan my face. ‘And you look like you’d cry if someone yelled at you.’

He’s not wrong. My chest feels so heavy and if anyone so much as glare at me wrong, I will cry. The fifth interview is at a call center. The woman interviewing me chews gum and scrolls through her phone while I talk. When I finish, she nods once.

‘We’ll call you.’

She won’t. I can feel it.  The sixth is a coffee shop. Students are everywhere. Laptops. Headphones. The manager was a burly man in a man bun, ironic shirt. When I arrive, he asks me why I want to work there.

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. Because I don’t want this. I don’t want to hand out overpriced lattes and pretend I’m invisible. I don’t want any of it.

‘I need the money,’ I finally say.

He nods slowly, eyes flicking over me like he’s deciding if I’m a liability.

‘We’ll be in touch.’

Outside, I stand on the sidewalk and watch traffic blur past. That’s when I realize I’m crying quietly. No sobbing. Just tears slipping down my face like they’re tired too. My phone buzzes. Hope flares for half a second. Maybe one of them wants to call me for the job offer? 

I pick up my phone and then I see the number. It's the hospital. My hope falls.

‘Hello?’ My voice shakes.

‘Miss Windsor. I’m calling about your father.’

Everything inside me drops. ‘His condition has worsened,’ the voice continues. ‘We need to discuss treatment options. However… there are outstanding medical bills.’

I close my eyes. The world tilts.

‘How much?’ My voice is shaky.

She tells me. It’s a number that doesn’t belong to my life. To my world at all.

‘I don’t have that,’ I whisper.

‘I understand. Without payment, we’ll have to move him to palliative care only.’

Palliative care. The kind where they stop trying. ‘Please,’ I say. ‘There has to be—’

‘I’m sorry, Miss Windsor.’

The call ends. And that’s when it all finally hits that not one thing but everything is over. All  at once. My life is over.