Chapter 5 - The Door on 4th and ElmThe Maybach screeched to a halt in front of a decaying brick apartment building on 4th and Elm. The neighborhood was a grim maze of flickering neon signs, peeling paint, and overflowing trash cans sitting in stagnant puddles of rainwater.
Edward threw the door open before the chauffeur could even step out to assist him. He hoisted Maya into his arms, shielding her from the driving rain with his own body, and rushed up the concrete steps leading down to the basement level.
Basement apartment B.
The door was a battered slab of gray wood, its paint flaking off in dry scales. A rusted padlock hung uselessly beside a broken brass handle.
“You have to kick it, Grandpa!” Maya urged, pointing a small finger near the bottom corner. “Just like Mommy does when the wood swells up!”
Edward didn’t hesitate. He drew back his Italian leather shoe and slammed his heel against the bottom of the door with all the pent-up rage, guilt, and desperation of the last five years.
CRACK.
The rotted frame splintered. With a second heavy shove from Edward’s shoulder, the door burst inward, crashing against the interior wall with a deafening bang.
The air inside the apartment hit Edward like a physical blow. It was freezing, damp, and smelled sharply of vinegar, rubbing alcohol, and copper—the unmistakable metallic tang of blood.
“Mommy!” Maya screamed, wriggling out of Edward’s arms and darting down the narrow hallway.
“Maya, wait!” Edward shouted, stumbling after her into the cramped, dimly lit bedroom.
The sight that met his eyes made his heart stop beating.
There, lying on a thin mattress stretched across a metal frame, was Claire. Her face was stark white, her skin stretched taut over high cheekbones. Her brown hair, once vibrant and full of life, was plastered to her sweat-soaked forehead. A stained white blanket was pulled up to her chest, but it couldn't hide the dark red pool of blood soaking through the pillow beneath her head.
Beside the bed sat a small plastic basin filled with pink-tinged water and a blood-soaked rag.
Claire’s eyes fluttered open at the sound of footsteps. She tried to turn her head, her lips parting in a weak, agonizing gasp.
“M-Maya… you… you shouldn’t have come back here…” Claire whispered, her voice a fragile, papery rustle. Her gaze drifted past her daughter, landing directly on the towering figure standing in the shattered doorway.
For three long seconds, time froze.
May you like
Claire stared at her father through a haze of fever and blood loss. She didn't scream. She didn't yell at him to get out. Instead, a heartbreaking, exhausted smile touched her pale lips.
“Dad…?” she breathed, before her eyes rolled back, and her body went completely limp against the bloody pillows.
