I was able to accompany the body home in the private jet, and I watched as a hearse retrieved the coffin on the tarmac before I got into the town car sent by “Mother.”
I could feel Lyla and Richard’s eagerness to know what had passed between me and Father. Their anxiousness was palpable. They wanted to know if he told me the truth. They wanted to know if they’d get the company. I remained quiet and sullen to spite them.
After some days of avoiding them by staying in my room, Father’s lawyer came to read the last will and testament. I was summoned to the study downstairs. Richard and Lyla gave me contrived, sympathetic eyes, but the greed was poorly masked. They looked like gamblers waiting for the dice to fall, but the crapshoot fell in my favor. Father left everything in my control. His board would execute a detailed plan for the year and a half before I became eighteen. Then it would be solely my business.
Uncle Richard’s face transformed from expectant to shocked. My mother ran to him for comfort, but he didn’t respond to her embrace. I think she sensed it in that very moment. He didn’t truly care for her. Maybe he had at one time, I don’t know, it’s possible, but after all the years, he didn’t anymore. She would never accept it, though. She shrugged it off and went directly into a tirade. She came down on the lawyer just like I remember her coming down on my principal in elementary school, but nothing could be changed no matter how dire the threats she spat at him.
I could have dropped the bomb on them then, that I knew Sorcha was my real mother, but I chose not to. That would release Lyla. She would no longer have to make an effort to perform, to pretend that I was her son (although she did a horrible job of it). No, she would have to keep up the masquerade if she wanted to be maintained.
And so I let her believe I still thought she was my mother, and I doted on her with the most saccharine sweet attentions, and I told her how much I needed her help. Oh Mother, I’m not feeling well. Please, take me to the doctor. My dear mother, I’m sorry I vomited again. Mother, my nose is bleeding. Please, I can’t sleep. Please stay and read to me. Thank you so much for always taking care of me ... And I’d sit with her, serene and satisfied, knowing that she hated every second, but that she’d rather live the rest of her life in misery than to risk losing her affluent lifestyle and tainting the false family prestige.
Uncle Richard now treated her with the same restrained contempt with which she had treated me. Their love for one another was based on their dreams coming true. He had planned on living with my mother in limitless wealth, traveling the world, and indulging in all of his heart’s desires. The reality of being with us day-to-day and living on a budget made him increasingly bitter and irritable. He spent most of his time away in the fashion of my late father, but he did not cut the cord completely. I think he was waiting for me to die next, as my mysterious illnesses brought me close to death several times. But he did not know it was all carefully orchestrated. I loved watching his probing eyes, searching for the hallmarks of death. I almost heard him thinking, is this it? But I always made a miraculous recuperation and enjoyed every minute of their wretchedness as they witnessed me run the company into the ground. For Father, for Sorcha, and for me.
*
“You did it on purpose?” Susan asked. She was alert again, sitting up, suspicious eyes locked on me as I revealed the final secret.
“Do you really think a man with my intelligence would be so careless? I invented ways to draw out the demise of the company. I saw in my father’s eyes the unhappiness it had brought him. I saw in Lyla and Richard’s hunger for the power and money, and it was with the utmost care and pleasure that I dismantled it piece by strategic piece. Uncle Richard eventually gave up and married a wealthy heiress. I believe Lyla pined for him to the end of her days.”
My Suze looked puzzled, hurt, and then angry. “You mean the company, the house, all of it could still have been yours?”
“Of course,” I said. “I could get it all back now if I wanted to.”
I saw the rage simmering beneath her again; it thrilled me.
“All this time I’ve been worrying about how to make ends meet, how to get us out of this godforsaken hole, how to keep you alive, and you destroyed everything for your revenge. Do you think that’s noble? Really? Did it bring you that much satisfaction? Was it worth it to see me suffer and struggle just so you could spite them? Are Sorcha and your father smiling down at you now?” She was becoming that Susan of the Hammer again. “You made me feel sorry for you, but you’re the black spider sitting here spinning your traps!”
“I didn’t make you do anything you didn’t want to,” I replied, smiling at her as her small, adorable face flushed with anger. Yes, yes, this was becoming fun again.
She launched herself from the bed, spun around, and glared at me with her hands on her hips.
“What are you smirking at?” She raised her voice. “What is so funny, John?”
“You want to hit me.” I said. “You know you do.” I adjusted my body, arching my torso a little, inviting a blow.
Her jaw dropped in outrage. “You’re impossible!”
“Go on, do it.” I said, feeling the arousal tugging down below, a sensual deepness affecting my voice. “Hit. Me.”
She stared at me for a moment. I swear I could see one side of her considering it, but she kept on resisting me.
“No, no!” She shielded her eyes with her hand. “Shut up. Shut up. I’m not going to hit you. You know what I’m going to do? Call the police. I’ve let this go on long enough.” She reached for the phone and entered three numbers. 9-1-1.
She still didn’t see it. The symbiosis. This was becoming frustrating.
“Don’t you see? The money is what ruined all of them. And they ruined me. The money was poison!” I had to make her understand, but she turned her back to me and held the phone to her ear, waiting for an answer.
What my poor Susan didn’t know was that I was stronger than she ever imagined. So very much stronger. She had seen me bedridden for so long that she had no idea what I was capable of. My body was powerful; the scars that stitched my skin together were my armor, and my bones were hardened like gnarled, petrified branches. My muscles did not have a threshold for pain … at least I’d never reached one yet.
Yes, my face was smashed and throbbing, but I was alive, full of blood pumping, a heart pounding with passion, power, and adrenaline. I, too, launched from the bed. She heard the sound of the springs and whipped to face me. In one move I was towering over her, looking down on her, my expression deranged, no doubt. A sarcastic grin of impatience, teeth stained with blood, one pummeled eye protruding, the other twitching manically and boring into her with determination.
All my secrets were revealed. The poison that destroyed my family would not destroy us. Susan and I were finally free to be happy, but it was her turn to be honest now, and I could not allow her to ruin everything.
“Put that phone down, sweetie,” I said, failing to temper the menace in my voice. She panted erratically, dropping the phone, her mouth speechless and dumb.
I seized her, sinking my rigid fingers into the soft flesh of her upper arms.
“Susan,” I said. She shuddered and whimpered, her wide eyes locked on my face.
“Susan,” I said more calmly, soothingly, easing my swollen, crusted face into an expression of calm conviction. “This is not how we will end.”
The third and final part of the SICK series is coming soon.
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About the Author
Christa (Wojo) Wojciechowski is the author of The Wrong David, The Sick Psychological Thriller Series, and is working on a series of full-length novels called The Sculptor of New Hope. Her characters explore existential turmoil, mental illness, and the complexity of romantic love. She uses her stories to compare the dark, carnal nature of humanity with its higher qualities of creative expression and intellectualism.
Christa currently resides in Panama with her h
usband and a house full of pets. She works as a freelance digital marketer and loves to help fellow authors build their brands and platforms. Christa enjoys foreign movies, yoga, wine, and the outdoors. Most of all, she's passionate about books and writers and loves discussing them on social media.
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