Chapter Three

The minutes blended into hours as Aster wandered the city. He had long left the outskirts behind and had entered a more upscale neighborhood. As far as wealth went, the buildings weren't truly that luxurious, but to Aster, the idea of a singular family occupying an entire house was the epitome of grandeur.

The sights weren't why Aster had walked so far; rather, they were merely a backdrop to his rampaging mind.

Two sides pulled upon his brain, fighting for control, yet the more they fought, the more torn he became.

He wanted to be forgiven. He wanted to walk back into his childhood home and hug his siblings. He wanted to tell them everything would be okay.

Simultaneously, he didn't want to lie to his family. Even after mulling over his chosen words, his extenuating circumstances, he believed every word that he spoke and more or less stood behind them.

And within the tear that seemed to form, a third option appeared for him, but Aster wasn't sure he was ready to face that reality head-on.

Not yet, at least.

Lost in thought, Aster continued to walk into the chilling winter air.

At some point, Aster stumbled.

On a normal day, tripping in such a way may have caused him to step slightly out of canter. Today was not a normal day, and his body, frozen stiff, was unable to correct his path before he found himself hurtling towards cold concrete.

Reactively, he braced himself with both arms, ready to catch himself.

As his right hand hit the pavement, an unbelievable streak of pain ricocheted through his arm, causing Aster to let out an animalistic groan.

The sharp pain was a cold bucket of water on Aster's hazy mind. He realized just how much the pain within his hand had numbed as he walked, to the point where his entire body had numbed.

A warmth spread from the arm trapped beneath him. Fresh blood—the fall had done more than aggravate his wound; it was reopened.

He attempted to prop himself up, putting strength into his one working arm, now stuck beneath his face-down torso. It struggled and shook with vigor, but he was unable to move it even a single inch.

In this moment, panic bells should have begun to ring for Aster. In their stead, a comforting darkness began to envelop him.

Aster closed his eyes.

In the distance, an ambulance wailed. It was too loud, he thought; it would interrupt his rest.

Aster's eyes shot open to be met with white sheets and fluorescent lights. The feeling of a cold IV lodged into his forearm and the rhythmic beat of thousands of pulses filled him with true panic.

'I'm in a hospital. Not good.'

Despite his weakness, Aster's instincts took hold. He tore his blankets off and began to fiddle with the IV needle. He winced; he hated needles.

A moment later, a single drop of crimson was all that remained of the IV.

He heaved himself off the bed, almost stumbling to the floor once again. Luckily, he seemed to have landed himself in a relatively high-brow hospital, as each bed had a cane and wheelchair ready at arm's reach for patient use.

Step by step, Aster worked his way towards the door. If anyone had been there to see him, he would have been embarrassed by the sheer amount of effort and willpower that distance took.

There is no distance that Aster would not have traveled to escape that hospital; rather, he would have preferred to drop dead than lay back down on that bed.

It was because of the price. Aster was sure he had already racked up a monstrous bill in just the ambulance alone; it would not be a number that his family would be able to survive.

In fact, if Aster heard the number of zeros that he had already accumulated, his heart likely would have stopped then and there.

Just before next to the door stood a nondescript mirror. He paid it no mind as he reached for the door handle; rather, he wasn't sure he wanted to look into it and see the sorry state of himself.

"Are you sure Cathy isn't here? Tonight is all hands on deck." The voices of nurses wandering through the halls gave Aster pause. He slowly closed the door before leaning his weight upon it to ensure it stayed closed.

A reflection of himself stared back at him.

Bile rose in Aster's throat; the image of himself was a different person, a dead man walking.

His skin was pale and sallow, bruised and discolored. Each of his dark maroon eyes was accompanied by lifeless eye bags, and his once lustrous brown hair seemed thin and frazzled. There was not a hint of the soft, passionate young man he thought himself to be.

He was a walking corpse.