Chapter 2 The End of Normal

Ysara Hartwell POV

The camera light blinked at me like a needy little gremlin.

It was begging for attention while I adjusted my hair and tried to decide if my eyeliner wing made me look like a seductive forest witch or an exhausted raccoon with a caffeine addiction. Honestly, it could go either way.

“Alright, babes,” I said into the lens, leaning forward just enough to tease the idea of cleavage without crossing lines I’d definitely cross later. “We’re doing a soft session today. Just vibes. Just you, me, and the catastrophic state of my frontal cortex.”

Hearts spammed the screen. A few fire emojis. A username named WolfDaddy21 tipped twice in a row, which either meant he was into the bit or he was drunk. Possibly both. My fans were a special breed of chaotic.

I smirked. “Don’t be shy. Tell Mommy what kind of mood you’re in.” I leaned in further, squeezing my boobs together and winking at the camera. They lost it. They always did.

Another flood of emojis. Someone sent a paragraph. Someone else begged for a custom. Someone offered enough money to buy an emotional support alpaca.

I opened my mouth to flirt back when my phone, my actual non-camera phone, started vibrating on the vanity beside me. The name on the screen punched me in the face:

Lila Calling.

My sister never called during my streams. Never. She respected the grind, the hustle, and the fragile ecosystem of horny chaos I ruled over.

I sighed dramatically into the camera. “Hold on, my loves. My sibling appears to be summoning me from the depths of hell.”

The chat exploded with laughing emojis. I muted the stream, snatched up my phone, and answered with the kind of little sister attitude that came as naturally as breathing.

“What the hell, Lila? I’m literally working. Like, actually working. This is adult content capitalism. You cannot interrupt me mid...”

“Ysa?”

Her voice was soft. Too soft. Lila didn’t do soft unless something was very wrong.

“She’s sick,” she whispered. “Mom’s really sick. You need to come home. Now.”

My heart tripped. Then fell. Then broke in six different directions like an over caffeinated spider on roller skates.

“Lila,” I breathed, “what the fuck are you talking about? Sick like flu sick? Sick like ‘she needs soup and Netflix’ sick? Sick like...”

“Sick like I called 911.”

The air froze in my chest.

She sniffed. “They’re taking her to County General. She collapsed in the kitchen, Ysa. Just come. Please.”

I didn’t even remember hanging up. One second my phone was at my ear, the next it was face down on the vanity, reflecting my wide, blurred eyes.

I unmuted the camera.

“Guys...”

My voice cracked. “Guys, my...my mom is dying. I have to go. I’m so sorry, I love you all...I just... I have to go.”

I hit END STREAM so fast I didn’t even see the avalanche of comments, the donations, or the frantic little hearts begging me to stay or to tell them what was happening. The screen went black and I was already tearing off my set lights, ripping down the tapestry backdrop, and knocking over my ring light.

I didn’t care. I couldn’t breathe.

I moved on autopilot, living proof that anxiety could grab the wheel and floor it straight into a brick wall while the rest of me screamed in the passenger seat.

“Clothes,” I muttered, stumbling into my bedroom. “Bag. Keys. Wallet. Water? No. Fuck water. I don’t have time for hydration.”

Everything blurred. My hands shook so badly I almost dropped my jeans twice. My shirt was inside out but I didn’t even notice until I passed my mirror. My face was streaked with mascara. My lipstick was smeared like I was a clown having a psychotic break.

Whatever. Better things to panic about. I grabbed my bag, phone, charger, a hoodie, and breathed through a spiraling tunnel of dread that tasted metallic and sour.

Mom. My mom. My mother who loved me even when I was an emotional hurricane with legs. The woman who held me during my meltdowns and never told me to be less. The woman who fought teachers for judging me. The woman who kept a framed photo of me even after I told her it was embarrassing.

She couldn’t be dying. She wasn’t allowed to be dying. I sprinted out the door.

My building’s elevator took too long, so I took the stairs, nearly dying on step forty-two because I forgot cardio was a thing. By the time I burst into the parking garage, my lungs were trying to claw their way out of my chest.

My baby... my brand new, purple BMW M4, bought with OnlyFans money and blessed by the gods of “fuck capitalism, get paid” .... glistened beneath the overhead lights.

I dove in, tossed my bag onto the passenger seat, and jammed the keys into the ignition. Angry girl metal blasted through the speakers....perfect. Exactly the kind of emotional violence I needed. My pulse synced with the drums. My panic synced with the lyrics.

I slammed the car into drive. Two hours. Two goddamn hours to my childhood home. Two hours to find out if my mother was alive. My hands trembled on the steering wheel.

“Fuck,” I choked. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

The city blurred past. Neon signs. Broken streetlamps. Buildings I didn’t remember passing. My vision was tunneling, going sharp at the edges, and colors were way too bright. My thoughts came in a stampede:

She can’t die. She raised us. She needs me. What if I’m too late? Why didn’t she tell us she was sick? Oh god, what if she’s already...

I slammed the heel of my hand against the steering wheel, and my chest caved with the force of not crying.

“Not now,” I muttered. “Not the full meltdown. Not while I’m driving, you emotionally unhinged gremlin. Keep it together.”

That voice, the one I’d developed over years of surviving my own brain, tried to anchor me.

Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. Don’t crash the car. Don’t spiral. Not yet. My phone buzzed in the cupholder. I snatched it up at a red light, breath shaking.

A text from Lila: At the hospital. She’s conscious but confused. Hurry, Ysa.

I swallowed a sob. “I’m coming. I’m coming. Please don’t die before I get there.”

A notification blinked next: OnlyFans: 217 new messages. 87 new tips. Are you okay?

For some reason, that made me cry harder. People who didn’t know my real name cared that I ran off-screen sobbing. People who only knew the curated version of me, the sexy chaos gremlin, the hourglass femme fatale, the queen of thirst traps, were worried.

They were sending money. They were sending words. They were sending panic. And I couldn’t answer any of them.

The light turned green. I drove.

The highway opened up into long, sweeping asphalt framed by tall pines. My childhood route. My old escape path. I used to bike this road when I was twelve and furious at the universe for giving me a brain that couldn’t quiet down.

Every mile felt like walking on broken glass. The music screamed. I screamed with it. Raw, messy, ugly sounds that ripped out of my chest.

I felt too much.That was my curse. That was my strength.

My emotional volume was always set to “catastrophic earthquake.” And today? Today the Richter scale didn’t stand a goddamn chance.

At mile forty-two, my breathing went ragged again, panic attack territory, so I cracked the window even though it was cold. The air slapped my face, but it was sharp and grounding.

“You’re okay,” I told myself.

“You’re driving. You’re going home. She’s alive until someone tells you otherwise. Keep going. Keep going.”

I passed the state line. My stomach twisted. The closer I got to home, the more the memories clawed their way up:

Me and Lila building pillow forts.

Mom burning pancakes every Saturday.

Dad teaching us bad magic tricks.

The way Mom hugged, tight enough to fix things, even when they weren’t fixable.

My panic had teeth now. It bit down hard. I gripped the wheel.

“I should’ve visited more,” I whispered.

“Should’ve checked in more.”

“Should’ve called last week. Why didn’t I call last week?”

“Fuck. Fuck.”

My brain did what all emotionally unstable brains do:

It weaponized guilt. But I kept driving. One hour left. Angry girl metal transitioned into a screaming anthem about unhinged love and burning kingdoms. Fitting. My life felt like both. As the trees thinned and familiar old storefronts came into view, something inside me cracked wide open. The good memories. The bad ones. The ones I shoved into corners.

Mom was my anchor. My constant. My calm in the typhoon of my personality. If I lost her…No. I refused to finish that thought. The hospital came into view down the road. It was a squat brick building I’d always hated because it smelled like bleach and fear.

My vision blurred again.

“Mom,” I whispered. “Please be okay.”

I pulled into the lot too fast, with my tires squealing like the emotional feral child I truly was. I parked crooked. Didn’t care. Snatched my bag. Slammed the door, and fucking ran. Cold air sliced my lungs as I sprinted toward the ER entrance with my hoodie flapping, and tears streaking my ruined makeup.

I burst through the sliding doors, with my heart in my throat, and my chest on fire.

“Where...” I gasped. “My mom... I’m Ysara Hartwell, my mom came in... she collapsed.... I....”

A nurse looked up, startled at my volume, then softened.

“Are you her daughter? Your sister just went back with her. Come with me.”

And just like that...my life, my OnlyFans chaos, and my reckless freedom...all of it narrowed down to one fragile hope.

Mom. Please. Please don’t leave me. I followed the nurse down the hallway. My breath was shaky, my heart was pounding, and every step was heavier than the last.

I wasn’t ready to be the adult. I wasn’t ready to lose her. I wasn’t ready for anything.

But ready or not....

.....everything was about to change.