The Pharmacy (UNEDITED)

Chapter Seventeen & Chapter Eighteen

   Chapter Seventeen

Fabian

The view from the second floor balcony was wonderful.

Golden sunlight of the drowning star that fuels our life burned the skies until they shined in hues of orange, purple, blue, and red. I suppose it would be mesmerizing to most, but as I sat out there, I couldn't feel anything. A part of me was dead, and it was dragging the rest of me down with it. Sometimes, when I looked over at the street, I felt raging jealousy. When a child hugged their mother, I could feel my heart twisting and tugging, and I would disconnect from the world for a few moments, getting devoured by my scarily aggressive emotions. When there was a person of my age working, or interacting with the world, I would begin to distinguish myself as abnormal, no matter how many times others told me I wasn't. When I saw a child's father screaming them off or scolding them on the streets, I dearly hoped that he would suddenly die.

I wished I was living with someone else. I don't need a mansion, I don't need a banker for a father, and I don't need to suffer any longer! I don't deserve this, and I never did! What had I ever done?

My eyes were burning, and I was unconsciously dropping tears without feeling them going down. The only way I could tell they were even there is because I could see the droplets staining the wood of the balcony with a muddy brown. Soon, I was only able to inhale breaths in painful jerks that were difficult for me to take in. I have established that I am one foot in the grave, but I could never handle the excruciating process of setting the next foot in. I automatically curled myself with my arms folded against my stomach, coughing up breaths that were supposed to stay in, feeling sudden twinges of intense pain in my heart, groaning aloud through clenched teeth as I slowly walked the hell of my life.

Within a couple of minutes, the pain slowly died out until my back was against the leather chair I sat in, and I was normally inhaling real breaths, oxygen that reached my lungs. My inner muscles slowly relaxed until, instead of aching like I had fallen three stories, began sending mild but noticeable pain in rhythmic, patterned pulses. My eyes had been shut until they delicately opened themselves, as if they had a mind of their own, waiting for the suffering to cease. I was numb, as I was every time a fit like this had come across me in the past week. It was dinnertime, I could hear Eleanora shouting me downstairs. I pressed the base of my palm against my face, ignoring her calls, until I felt a warm liquid dousing it. What in the world?

I quickly looked down at my hand, which I regretted doing immediately after. Its image made me lightheaded, covered in blood and smelling of iron. I'd suspected that I might have slashed my palm somewhere in the middle of my fit, so I pulled a handkerchief from my front pocket and wiped it off, only to find that nothing was underneath. It would be impossible to describe the sheer dread that overcame me at that moment. With a full throat, I swallowed and neared my jittering fingers to my face, reaching and touching the same spot on which I laid my palm. When I looked back at them, they were red.

I used the cleaner part of the handkerchief to wipe that area, which was below my nose. Nosebleed, again. How did I not realize? Had I lost the ability to be conscious of myself?

"Fabian!" Eleanora called from downstairs once again, but I did my best to tune her out, wiping my nose as best as I could before it would rage once again.

She called again, and I ignored her again. And then I heard the stomping of footsteps coming near. Then behind me.

"Get downstairs."

I turned to see Miriam fuming, and turned back to the view. A couple of moments passed before she 'untensed', and relaxed her position. She quietly sighed and leaned against the side of my chair, looking out into the same horizon that I had been glued to all day.

"Are you hungry, Master Fabian?"

"I've told you for the last time, stop calling me that," I muttered.

"It's my duty."

"No it's not."

She laughed, "Master. You must come eat. I promised your father."

"That doesn't motivate me."

"Well, I was hoping it would. I made it up."

"You don't know me well enough."

She flung her arms each across my torso, drooping herself over the back of the chair. "Master, I need you to come eat."

"Why do you need me to eat?"

"Eleanora will kill me if you don't. You know how she is with her cooking. If I eat her pasta, I'll need a witness."

I managed a weak smile, "I can't, Miriam, I'm sorry."

"Please," her voice became weaker, "You'll need it for your medicine."

...

"Fine," I succumbed to her pleas. "I'll come."

"Thank you," she whispered before letting go, and helping me over to the dining room.

Chapter Eighteen

Miriam

Dinner didn't last very long.

I couldn't convince him to eat more than half of his plate. He looked pale by the time he ate three spoonfuls. I could only give him sympathetic little looks to get him to take another bite. After that, he flat out refused, and walked back upstairs. I could not for the life of me figure out how to fix him.

"Miriam, are you going to keep your mind on him?" Harper twirled her blonde hair as she looked at me from head to toe.

"It's my duty," I responded to her as I washed the dishes. "I don't limit myself to kissing the feet of the employer. I am not a slave."

Harper laughed, "He's eighteen, he can take care of himself. His problems should not be yours."

I bit my inner lip to control my temper, "He is ill. And his mother is dead."

"He still has that uncle of his," she replied. "And his father."

"Some father," I muttered, "He smacks him if he goes a little out of line. At this point, I feel like the only reason he pays for his treatment is so he doesn't die alone. And his uncle is a bit questionable, to say the least."

"Maybe that girl the Baumhauers used to send will come back. I think they intend to start using her again," Harper got up from her seat and took a wet rag to clean the table with.

"He did start looking up when she would visit."

"Keep this in mind. If he ever does get better, his life will still be miserable."

I sharply turned to her, "How so?"

"Won't he get drafted? He's the perfect fit. Tall, blonde, blue eyed. Austrian."

"He won't be like that. I can tell."

"He really loves his uncle. And Austria-- err, loved Austria."

"What says he'll stay in the country?"

"Where else would he go?"

"He has phenomenal skills in English. He's as fluent as you, and you're half American."

"True. But we never really knew his ideals."

"He's a good man. He really is, Harper. His life is something he should be grateful for. He just doesn't know it, yet."