After They Buried Me Chapter 2

"Gabriel, how could you just stop your medication? Do you want to die?"

When I came around again, Vivienne was standing over me, furious.

My parents were at the foot of the bed, just as unhappy. "We had to hear it from a nurse. How can you care so little about your own life? What are we supposed to do if something happens to you?"

They looked frightened.

Something warm moved through the frozen place in my chest.

Maybe some part of them did care.

Then a nurse came in with a syringe.

I read the label.

It wasn't the antidote keeping me alive.

It was the compound.

"Do we have to?"

I looked up at them and asked it quietly.

Once that went in, I wouldn't have much time left.

A month, maybe.

A week.

Or a day.

"The doctor says one more course and you'll stabilize.

"Then we can take you home."

My mother sat down on the edge of the bed, all tenderness.

"Hurry up and get better, Gabriel.

"I'm still waiting on a real wedding."

Vivienne smiled too.

I didn't say anything.

I just watched the compound go into my vein.

It didn't matter.

That's what I told myself.

It was only speeding up the collapse of a body that was already finished.

They gave me this life.

If they wanted it back, they could have it.

That night the hospital issued three critical notices in a row.

"Viv, you said there was an antidote. Why is he this bad?"

Looking through the ICU glass at all the tubes running into me, my mother turned to Vivienne, frightened.

"He's always been weak."

Vivienne frowned.

Something worried moved behind her eyes anyway.

It was three days before I clawed my way back awake.

They discharged me the moment I did.

When my assistant wheeled me through the front door, the family's other "son," Connor Moreland, was already waiting.

"Welcome home, Gabriel!"

He came toward me smiling.

I saw right away that he had my slippers on.

"Connor only just got back, and he's about the same size as you, so I thought—"

Roz, our housekeeper, trailed off.

"It's fine, it's my fault.

"I got Gabriel's slippers dirty."

Connor had them off in a second, set them down in front of me like an offering, and stood barefoot on the floor.

"Connor..."

Behind me, my parents and Vivienne watched the performance, and both their faces went tight.

"Gabriel, they're slippers. Do you have to be this small about it?"

Vivienne frowned.

"She's right. You're in a wheelchair, you don't need shoes anyway. What's wrong with letting your brother wear them?

"There's no call to be that cold to family."

My mother said it under her breath.

Loud enough for the whole room.

I almost laughed.

"If I were really that small about it, he'd never have made it through the front door."

When the Morelands got me back, the company was already mismanaged into the ground and close to going under.

That's why Connor left so agreeably.

I drank until my stomach bled to land the investment that saved Moreland Industrial.

Where was Connor then?

They only did this because they knew I'd give in.

My face didn't move. I asked Dana to take me back to my room.

The wheelchair went straight over the slippers.

It was exactly how much thought I'd ever given Connor.

His face went ugly.

Like a punch he'd wound up for had landed in a pillow.

Then, that night, my stomach twisted me awake again.

I got myself into the chair and pushed toward the stairs, and caught the warm little scene in the living room below.

They were down there making ravioli from scratch.

Shrimp filling. Connor's favorite.

My father worked the dough. My mother minced the filling.

Vivienne was laughing, dabbing flour on Connor's cheek.

And I thought about lying in that hospital bed, mumbling through a fever that I wanted a bowl of my mom's chicken soup.

The next morning I got cold takeout.

Right then I was a rat in a drain, staring up at a life that should have been mine.

A tear came loose and hit the back of my hand, bruised and full of needle marks.

The familiar sting spread out under my skin.

I didn't interrupt them.

I went back to my room and answered an email from overseas.

The subject line had the words body donation, emergency recovery, and research consent in it.