Lucid Ending

This story has been knocking around in my head for a while now. I hope you like reading it as much as I liked writing it. Your feedback would be invaluable to me, so let me know what of thought of my effort.

There is a LOT of buildup before the sex comes, so if you want quick relief, this story probably won’t do it for you.

“If you truly want something, the universe will conspire to give it to you.”

-Paulo Coelho

*

*

The twin engine Learjet 60 broke below the clouds. Karen Carmichael sat all alone, surveying the cityscape of New York outside her window. The crimson hue from the setting sun illuminated the backdrop of the towering skyscrapers, creating a surreal effect. The sun shone in through the oval window on Karen’s face. A teardrop glistened on her cheek. Up there, in a bubble above the city, in her private jet, she had never felt more alone.

All that she loved, all that ever mattered to her was hanging by a tiny thread. One that could snap at any moment.

Every second that passed seemed like an eternity to her. The plane circled around to JFK and gradually descended. She impatiently patted the board with her fingertips.

“Not long now. I am coming. Just hang in there.”

She got up and stood anxiously by the door even as the plane landed. The steward seemed surprised by her uncharacteristic fidgeting. Hardly had the plane taxied to a halt in front of the hangar, when she burst out the door. A chauffeur driven Rolls-Royce drew up and she bounded into the back seat.

“Clinton Memorial, fast.”

The chauffeur nodded and sped through traffic. Karen hid her tears as best she could, but it was impossible. They just kept flowing in a steady stream as she raced toward her brother Adrian.

The streets, the hospital entrance, the stairs, the corridors were just dim obstacles as she raced to her brother’s ward. She bumped into nurses and orderlies along the way, but did not even slow down.

Not now, not when every second was precious.

Finally, she strode past the sliding glass doors into the ward. Her right palm involuntarily went to her mouth as she surveyed the scene before her.

Her brother. Her love. Her life. The handsome, charming and charismatic Adrian Carmichael lay still, various tubes and drips in his arms. There was a nasal cannula strapped across his face and an IV catheter pumped drugs into him.

Karen approached him with some trepidation. She reached out her fingers and gently touched his hand. Instinctively, he seemed to know who she was. Without opening his eyes, he held her fingers and smiled.

She could not resist whimpering as she fought to hold back the tears now welling in her eyes. He opened his eyes a sliver and his smile grew wider.

“Nice to see you too,” he said, in a weak voice.

Drawing up a chair, she sat down beside him. She never let go of his hand. He continued.

“Undifferentiated small cell cancer. Fancy term eh? Turns out that’s what’s going to kill me.”

“Hush! Don’t even think that. You are not going to die.”

Her tone was as firm as her resolve. Her brother was a survivor. In her heart she knew he would fight past this. Sadly, the exponentially multiplying cancerous cells inside him knew different. Even he knew it was too late.

“Karen. The doctors said it is in Stage 4. It has spread from my lungs to the surrounding tissue as well. It’s too late.”

“Then we will see a different doctor,” she said, with a desperate earnestness in her tone.

“I have already seen the five best oncologists in the state. They have all said the same thing. My chances are next to none.”

She clasped her hands over her ears and rushed out of the room, inadvertently bumping into a doctor.

“Mrs Carmichael, I presume.”

She nodded.

“I am very sorry for your brother… or husband, whichever way you look at it.”

He walked out of her view. There was a melee of reporters, each looking for an inside scoop, an inside take on the state of the billionaire Adrian Carmichael. Seeing the throng, she hastily retreated back into the ward. She was in no mood to deal with the press now. Especially since it wasn’t their first time being in the media spotlight.

Adrian’s skin had become pale, but he still looked like the man Karen fell in love with a decade back. He still had those piercing eyes and that jet black hair.

“Come here. Sit down beside me. I’ve wanted to talk to you for so long.”

She went around and sat beside him. He held her hand weakly and smiled. Finally, the wall broke. All those pent up tears burst, a waterfall of pain and anger. She gripped his hand with both palms and cried into it. Her tears flowed down his forearm and onto the bed. He tried to stop her tears, but he was too weak to lift his hand.

“Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. You were always the strong one. Be strong for me now. Please.”

Karen tried. She really did, but the tears would not stop. She clasped her hands around his head and gently sobbed into his neck. He whispered into her ear, soothingly, telling her over and over how much he loved her and would always love her.

She detached herself from him. When she took her fingers from his hair, a tuft of it came out. She looked at it with a horrified expression. Adrian smiled wistfully.

“That’s the radiation. Talk about bad hair day.”

Somehow Karen failed to see the intended humour. Her eyes focussed on each strand as she ran her beloved brother’s locks through her fingers. Her grief seemed to be beyond tears as she surveyed the damage with her own eyes.

“Sit beside me please. Let’s talk.”

“Talk about what?” said Karen in a hollow voice, shocked out of emotion.

“Just talk. Talk about the fabulous times we shared rather than the present.” * *

Adrian Carmichael never really had any idea about “love”. He grew up the fortunate only son of billionaire industrialist Victor Carmichael. Victor had not been an ideal role model as far as family went. He flagrantly cheated on his wife (Adrian’s mother) over and over again. She took the suffering with an unusual fortitude, silently caring for Adrian the way a single parent should.

Then one day, when he was fifteen, a man in a white coat informed him that she had small cell cancer in her lung. It was a rare undiagnosable variant that gave her a few weeks to live. He cried by her bedside all of that night, despite her feeble efforts to comfort him.

His father was tied up in a meeting on the top floor of his building so he could not be there. Adrian knew that, given the presence of the hot redhead from Accounting, he was quite literally “tied up”.

For six weeks his mother lay in her bed while various maids and servants got her food. Adrian never once left her bedside and held her hand throughout. It was heartwrenching for him to watch her die, but he never left. Not once.

His father had an easier time dealing with the grief of losing his wife. Carmichael Industries had just taken over a large cosmetics chain, which had an almost exclusively female workforce. Many of them were beautiful and raring to get higher positions in the company hierarchy after restructuring. What better way to do that than suck up to (or suck off) your new boss?

So during the six week that Adrian spent holding his mother’s hand and crying, Victor spent helping female executives and models “earn” their promotions. Of course, he was always thoughtful enough to text his son “How’s mum doing?”once a day.

How sympathetic of him.

Another urgent meeting with the ravishingly hot COO of the cosmetics group meant that he had to skip his wife’s funeral. It was an extremely regrettable inconvenience, he later admitted. The last rites over, Adrian’s last human connection was lovingly buried six feet under the grass of Trinity Church cemetery.

Back home, the dynamic remained largely the same. Victor gone night after night to the most exclusive high-end comfort clubs around the world while Adrian shut himself off from the world in his room and studied. He did not make friends in his prep school. The headmaster considered calling his father to inform him about his reticence, but he was always otherwise engaged.

Then one day, a week after Adrian turned eighteen, his father dropped a bombshell.

Rather, he showed up at their manor with a middle-aged lady in a white dress and a daughter, proclaiming her his new wife. Her name was Alice Lane, socialite, heiress to less money than she wanted, and a constant on various tabloid covers.

Despite not having a medical degree, Adrian could count the number of surgeries that went into this merger of silicone and humanity. Breasts, nose, cheekbones, stomach, back and every other visible place (and perhaps some invisible ones) had been sculpted, re-engineered and realigned. She had a shrill laugh and a smile as fake as her tits.

Even as this amalgamation of greed and whorishness stepped through the front door, he knew he would hate her.

She for her part ignored his presence in the house. Her sights were firmly set on the vast wealth that she now thought she had acquired. Adrian was just another feature of the house, slightly more important than the Ming vase on the front mantelpiece but less so than the Venetian chandelier in the dining hall.

Later on though, he would thank his father and Alice for getting drunk and married in Atlantic City. Because of this unorthodox union, he met Alice’s daughter, his step-sister, Karen Lane. * *

The doors to the ward opened and a surly doctor entered holding a clipboard. He shifted his glasses up his nose and glanced down the paperwork in front of him.

“Mr Carmichael, we will be taking you for your chemotherapy now,” he said in a dry, professional tone, which betrayed no emotion.

“But I thought I was in the last stage, with no chance of recovery?”

“Yes, but we have to keep trying. No chance may be an exaggeration. According to our statistics, you have less than one percent chance. Slim, but still a chance.”

Karen brightened up on hearing the last sentence. There was a thin ray of hope, something they would hold onto dearly.

“See, Adrian? You still have a chance,” she said, forcing a smile.