Don't Shoot the Messenger

17 - a Surprise

  Chapter 17       4200   words  

*edited..... 

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Claire's POV 

 Usually I typed cooking notes and recipes into my tablet, adding photos as well. I had let the battery get too low so I left it upstairs on the charger. I grabbed a notepad and pencil so I could write things down instead and transfer to the file later. I tried to take notes about the recipe she was showing me, but my handwriting... the first thing I wrote I scribbled out as illegible and I had to concentrate to shape the letters. My script was uneven and the loops more rounded. It didn't look like my handwriting at all. I looked at the page, knowing what it meant.

 "Is something wrong?" "Just..." I swallow, trying to think of an excuse "I never did this with my own Mother..." She nods, understanding. I force a smile and flip the notebook closed. "Let's do this." I try to focus, but once the analletti is in the oven, I escape to my own room. Alissandru stops me on the way, putting his hand on my arm. "What's wrong?" he asks. He has said before that I can't lie to him, I'd better not try. "I don't want to talk about it, at least not now. I need some time alone." My eyes beg him, I place my hand over his and squeeze before pushing it away. He releases me with some reluctance, but lets me go. 

I don't cry, but lay on my bed hugging my pillow. It's getting worse; I don't know how much more time I have. Alissandru or his Mother could help, I know that. What I don't know is why I am still hiding my symptoms, pretending nothing is wrong. I should be jumping at the opportunity. If I tell them I am ill, they will help.

There was a time when I doubted him. He said from the first night that it would be my choice whether to share his bed, or to leave him when the time came. I wasn't sure how far to trust that though. Not at first. I had seen him commit murder. Would a murderer hesitate to lie? If he paid for my medical bills I would owe him my life.  He could claim that he owned me from that point. He was used to getting what he wanted one way or another... He wouldn't, I know that now, but I didn't then. He wouldn't force me into anything, and he would help if I asked. 

 And yet... I don't want to be a patient, my life confined and sterilized. I might not survive the surgery and if I do... Things get complicated again. I had grown used to the idea of a life without consequences, making the most of the time I had left. If I lived...I had to decide what to do ... I had to live with the consequences of my choices ... and his.

 Cancer patients are not sexy. He would leave me after making sure that I was all right. The thought hurts more than the thought of dying. Death ...stops. It's living that hurts. Living without him... My breath catches hard in my throat and my chest aches.

How did he become so important to me? When did the frizzon of heightened awareness turn into another kind of energy? This can't be love, it can't be real. It was supposed to be a fantasy, right? How did I let my heart believe it? I should tell them. It would be easier to tell his Mother... but the sooner I tell them, the sooner this will be over. 

I have more time. I can put it off, at least tell them later. I know that I am lying to myself; I will keep it a secret as long as I can. The Dr. wanted me to have surgery immediately. The longer I wait the greater the risk that I won't survive... It may already be too late; it has been months.