The king of everything

Chapter seventeen - A hidden truth

I spent the next few days in a fog, trying to put the pieces of my life back together. The demon's presence was still there, lurking in the shadows of my mind, but Sam and Hope were determined to help me stay grounded. I hadn't told them about the near-incident in the street, how close I had come to losing control completely, but they knew something was eating away at me. I could see it in their eyes.

What they didn't know was that there was another darkness hanging over me—one I didn't even realize existed.

It was a Sunday afternoon when my phone rang, the screen flashing "Mom" in bold letters. I hadn't heard from her in a few days, and guilt gnawed at me for not checking in sooner. I quickly picked up the call, my voice strained. "Hey, Mom."

"Aaron," she said softly, and immediately, I knew something was wrong. Her voice was too quiet, too measured, as if she was holding something back.

"Is everything okay?" I asked, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.

She hesitated for a moment, and I could hear her take a deep breath on the other end. "Everything's fine, sweetheart. Just... I wanted to check on you. How's school going?"

Her tone was off, and I knew she was avoiding something. I wasn't in the mood to press, though. Between the demon and the constant feeling of dread hanging over me, I didn't have the energy to push for answers. I gave her the usual update about classes and life at the dorm, leaving out all the parts about the supernatural chaos unfolding in my life.

She listened carefully, but there was a tightness in her responses. I could feel it—like she was miles away, distracted by something I couldn't see.

"Mom," I said, unable to ignore it any longer, "you're acting weird. What's going on?"

There was a long pause, and for a moment, I thought the call had dropped. But then she spoke again, her voice cracking. "Aaron, your dad..."

My stomach dropped. "What about Dad?"

Another pause, longer this time, and when she finally spoke, I could hear the tears in her voice. "He's sick, Aaron. He's been sick for a while now."

I stood up, my heart pounding. "What do you mean? What kind of sick?"

She hesitated again, and I could tell she was struggling to get the words out. "He has... chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. COPD. He's been getting treatment, but it's... it's not getting better."

I froze, the room spinning around me. My dad had always been a strong, quiet presence in my life—never one to show weakness. The idea of him being seriously ill hadn't even crossed my mind.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended. "How long has this been going on?"

"Your father didn't want you to worry," she said quietly. "He didn't want to distract you from your studies. But it's getting worse, Aaron. The doctors said he doesn't have much time left."

I sank down onto the bed, my legs suddenly too weak to support me. "How much time?" I whispered.

"Two months," she said, her voice barely audible. "They're saying two months, maybe less."

Two months. The words echoed in my head, and I couldn't process them. My dad—my strong, invincible dad—had two months to live, and I didn't even know.

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them away. I couldn't cry, not now. My mom was barely holding it together, and the last thing she needed was me falling apart too.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked again, my voice shaking. "I could've come home. I should've been there."

"You're where you need to be, Aaron," she said softly. "Your father didn't want you to drop everything for him. He wanted you to keep living your life, to focus on your future. That's what he cares about most."