Life Drainer

Arthur crouched down by Charlotte's bedside, gently retrieving the phone and money he had stashed under her pillow earlier.

He didn't want to face the questions she would inevitably ask when she found them. He'd give her the phone later, as a gift—when the time was right.

Standing over her, he watched her sleep for a moment longer, her frail form peaceful beneath the thin blankets.

"Soon, things will be different," he promised himself, and with one final glance at Charlotte, he left the basement again, locking the door behind him.

This time, his destination was the pharmacy. Charlotte's medicine was running low, and it wasn't something he could afford to let slip.

The medicine didn't cure her, but it slowed down the relentless grip of her illness—the mysterious condition known as Life Drainer.

It kept her alive, for now.

The pharmacy was quiet, a stark contrast to the bustling streets outside. Arthur ordered enough of Charlotte's medicine for another week—$80, as usual.

As he paid, the weight of each dollar slipping away reminded him how fragile their survival truly was. But it didn't matter. This was for Charlotte, and he'd pay any price.

As he exited the pharmacy, his attention was drawn to an old man sitting outside in a battered wheelchair.

The man's clothes were tattered, his face gaunt, and his hands trembled slightly as he held them out, begging for help.

"Please, help me," the old man's voice was raspy, desperation lacing his words.

"My daughter is terminally sick, and I don't have enough money for her medicine. As you can see…" He gestured to his wheelchair, "I'm crippled too."

Arthur's eyes flicked toward the man but, without a word, he kept walking, ignoring the pleas.

He had his own problems—bigger problems—and there was no room for charity. Charlotte needed him, and every cent mattered.

But after just a few steps, Arthur's pace slowed. He stopped.

A sigh escaped his lips as guilt gnawed at him. It wasn't in his nature to care for strangers, not after what life had done to him.

Yet something in the man's voice, the desperation, struck a familiar chord. The thought of someone else suffering the way Charlotte did pulled at his resolve.

Turning on his heel, Arthur walked back toward the old man, his eyes cold. He stopped in front of him, looming over the hunched figure.

"What's your name, old man?"

The old beggar blinked in surprise. "Oliver," he rasped.

"My name is Oliver, young man."

Arthur nodded, his expression unreadable.

"How much does your daughter's medicine cost?" he asked, his tone flat.

Oliver glanced at Arthur's worn clothes, his shoes barely holding together, and shook his head gently.

"It's too much for you, young one. You don't have to burden yourself with something you can't afford."

Arthur's eyes narrowed, his voice hardening. "You didn't answer my question, old man. I won't ask again—how much does it cost?"

There was something in Arthur's tone, something sharp and unyielding, that made Oliver hesitate.

Finally, the old man sighed, his voice tinged with sorrow. "It costs $80 for a week's supply."

Arthur's eyes glinted with something unreadable.

"It can't be..."

The price was too familiar, too exact. His chest tightened with unease.

"What's her illness?" Arthur asked, his voice quieter now but carrying a weight of urgency.

The old man looked up at him, his eyes flickering with hesitation.

"It's... it's called Life Drainer," he whispered as if the name itself carried a curse.

Arthur's breath hitched, and his world seemed to tilt for a moment.

"Life Drainer."

The same illness that was slowly killing Charlotte. The same illness for which there was no cure—only medicine to slow the inevitable.

His mind raced.

"So, Charlotte isn't the only one suffering."

The realization unsettled him, a deep sadness creeping in. He'd always thought they were alone in this, that Charlotte's illness was unique, a cruel twist of fate just for them.

But now, here was someone else—another family broken by the same unseen enemy.

Without another word, Arthur turned and re-entered the pharmacy. His movements were quick, his thoughts sharper than before.

He bought another week's supply of the same medicine, the familiar weight of the vials heavy in his pocket.

The money—$80—slipped away as easily as before, but this time, it felt different. This time, it wasn't just for Charlotte.

Walking out, Arthur showed the vials to the old man.

"Lead the way," he said, his voice low but firm.

"I want to see if you're telling the truth."

Oliver's eyes widened with surprise and gratitude.

"Of course, young man. Of course."

He began wheeling himself forward, leading Arthur down the street toward a run-down part of town.

Arthur followed in silence, his thoughts clouded with conflicting emotions. He didn't know why he cared, why he was doing this.

"Was it guilt? Or was it simply because this old man's situation mirrored his own?"

He wasn't sure. But there was something about knowing someone else was fighting the same battle that made him want to see it through.

As they walked, the neighbourhood became rougher, more desolate.

The buildings were old and crumbling, and the streets were littered with trash. It was a place where people were forgotten, where hope came to die.

After a few more minutes, they arrived at a small, decrepit house nestled between two crumbling buildings.

The windows were cracked, the paint peeling, and the roof sagged under the weight of years of neglect.

It was the kind of place that looked like it had been forgotten by the world, much like the people inside.

"This is it," Oliver said softly, his voice barely above a whisper as he wheeled himself toward the front door.