Chapter 3
1494 Words
Breaking the embrace, Roland turned back to the jeep where the bottles were still lined up beneath the taped photograph. His breath trembled.
He had faced death without blinking. Survived gunfire, betrayal, hellish nights alone in unfamiliar lands. He had held dying men in his arms without shedding a tear.
But now?
Now he cried like a son who had come home too late.
With shaking hands, he swept the bottles off the hood in one harsh motion. They scattered across the concrete, rattling and rolling under shelves and tool benches.
He pressed both hands to the hood, bowing his head over the dented steel, shoulders heaving.
“I don’t know if there’s a heaven,” he whispered, voice cracking. “But if there is… I hope you’re not in pain anymore, Mom. I hope you’re smiling somewhere.”
He slid down slowly to the floor, back against the old jeep, legs drawn close like a boy again.
“Mom… I failed you. I failed everything I swore I’d fix. But if there’s another life—if there’s even a chance—I’d still choose to be your son.”
He looked up at the photo, eyes red, voice low.
“And next time… I’ll come home sooner. I’ll make you proud.”
A heavy silence followed briefly…
Then, softly, Lauren sat beside him on the cold floor, legs crossed, arms wrapped around her knees.
She didn’t speak at first. Just sat there with him, letting the silence breathe.
Then, quietly, she said, “You weren’t the only one who broke that night, you know.”
Roland glanced at her, his eyes glassy.
“After you disappeared… everything fell apart. Mom refused to eat. Barely slept. She spent every waking moment calling the police, following up on dead leads, showing your photo to strangers. Dad tried to be strong for her, but…”
Her voice cracked.
“He shattered, Roland. Not just grieving…he collapsed entirely. The man who used to lift you onto his shoulders could barely stand on his own anymore. He grew thin. Quiet…”
Roland looked away, his jaw tight.
“There were days,” Lauren went on, “when he wouldn’t even get any sleep. Nights when I’d catch him just… standing at the edge of the balcony, staring into the dark as if he wanted to end his life.”
Roland’s stomach twisted.
“But he didn’t,” she said. “Because of me. I was the only reason he kept breathing. So he dragged himself out of that pit, day after day, running the family clinic like a dying man racing a clock.”
She shook her head softly, her gaze drifting.
“All to put food on the table. All to give me a chance at a better life.”
Roland blinked through the tears, heart twisting unbearably.
“That tiny, rundown place became the backbone of our family,” she murmured. “And Dad? He was the last thread holding it all together with shaking hands and a fractured spirit.”
Roland’s throat tightened. His fists curled in his lap.
He should’ve been there. If he hadn’t stormed off in anger… if he hadn’t left them like they didn’t matter…
Guilt hit him like a punch to the chest. But even amid the ache, he looked at Lauren and saw strength.
She had filled the silence he left behind. Cooked. Cleaned. Helped at the clinic. And still, she kept her head in the books.
“Top of my class in liberal arts,” she added with a small shrug. “Final year at Berkeley High.”
Roland blinked. “You…?”
“Yeah,” she sniffed. “Teachers say I’ve got a future. Scholarships. Maybe even a shot at university abroad. Who knows?”
He stared at her, and something cracked open inside him.
“Lauren,” he said, voice hoarse, “I don’t deserve it… but I’m proud of you. Really proud.”
She gave him a small, tired smile, the kind that said I’ve been through more than I’ll ever tell you.
He swallowed hard, hesitating before he asked, almost afraid of the answer, “What’s it like now? What else haven’t I heard?”
Lauren froze for a second, then shook her head. “Nothing. I’ve told you everything.”
Roland didn’t buy it. Her eyes darted a little too fast, her smile a little too forced. But he didn’t push her. Not now. Instead, he reached over and gave her hand a quick squeeze.
“Come on,” he said with a sad smile. “Let’s go see Dad. We'd get something warm as well. My treat.”
Lauren’s face lit up like Christmas. “Heck yeah. I want real food—like something off a grill, still steaming."
He let out a dry laugh. “Alright. Hot and greasy. Got it.”
For the first time in over a decade, Roland felt the warmth of family. Like maybe, just maybe, things could start to heal.
Slinging his backpack over one shoulder, he and Lauren walked the cracked sidewalks of their old neighbourhood, headed for the Russell Family Clinic.
About two miles from the city center, tucked between a pawn shop and a grimy laundromat, stood the Russell Family Clinic.
Ten years ago, clinics like these were everywhere—Doctor So-and-So’s Practice, carved onto sun-bleached wooden signs. Now? Corporate hospitals and urgent care chains ruled the streets. Russell’s clinic was one of the few left standing. Barely.
The sign hung crooked, and the paint had long since peeled. A flickering neon "OPEN" sign buzzed weakly in the front window. The building looked like it hadn’t seen a renovation since the early 2000s.
The block reeked of burnt cooking oil and sewage. Greasy smoke billowed from nearby taco trucks and dive diners. It was the kind of place people only came to when they were desperate or broke.
Still, people lined up—nursing injuries, coughing into worn sleeves. Roland saw it all, and it made his stomach turn.
And then, through the smudged glass, he saw him.
An older man bent over a patient, his white hair thinner, movements stiff. His right leg dragged slightly as he walked, a limp that hadn’t been there before. He wore thick reading glasses, squinting as he filled out paperwork. He had to lean in close, hands trembling just a bit.
Was this really his father?
The man who once called him a disgrace? Who tore his scholarship certificate without blinking?
Roland’s breath caught. His chest clenched with guilt, anger, and something else he couldn’t name.
And then…
CRASH.
A steel bat slammed into the clinic’s glass door.
The glass exploded, shards flying into the street.
“Move!” one of the guys barked, shoving a pedestrian. “You don’t want to block Rufus.”
A group of rough-looking men—tattoos, chains, and dyed hair—stormed the sidewalk. At least six of them, led by a bulky man in a leather vest, his bat already swinging a second time for emphasis.
Roland instinctively pulled Lauren behind him. She gasped. Inside the clinic, chaos erupted.
Some patients screamed. Others scrambled out, IVs still in their arms, trailing cords and panic.
Only a few patients remained—too sick or too weak to flee. And Russell... Russell didn’t flinch.
The burly man stepped forward, eyes locked on the older doctor. “Russell! It’s the fourth month already. You promised payment by the first. Don’t make me tear this place down piece by piece.”
In the background, a teenager started recording on his phone. But nobody moved to intervene. Not in this part of town. People knew better than to get involved when guys like Rufus showed up.
A younger guy, bleach-blond, with a nasty grin added, “Clinic’s still running. Looks like business is good. You think we’re dumb, old man?”
The tension thickened. Roland could feel it in the air.
He suddenly understood. His father must’ve borrowed money from the wrong kind of people. Predatory loan sharks who operated outside the law. Maybe the banks turned him down. Maybe he just got desperate to keep the clinic alive. Either way, it explained everything, the limp, the stress, the clinic barely holding on.
Russell stepped out slowly from behind the counter. His limp was more obvious now, his back hunched with years of strain. He looked Rufus straight in the eyes, jaw clenched tight.
“I told you,” he rasped. “I don’t have the money. All I’ve got left is this place... and this life. You want one of them? Then come take it.”
Roland’s stomach dropped. His father hadn’t changed a bit. Still defiant. Still stubborn as hell.
Rufus chuckled, slow and menacing. “Oh, I’ll take both.”
He turned to his crew. “Trash the place. Grab anything worth more than a dollar and wreck the rest.”
- Writer
