Chapter 8: The Price Of A Soul
680 Words
POV: Elias
The meat pie Sam bought me felt like a stone in my stomach. I wasn’t used to kindness anymore. I was used to the weight of cement and the sting of sweat.
"Twenty thousand, Sam," I whispered, looking at my reflection in the dark hospital window. I looked like a ghost. "The nurse said twenty thousand by 6:00 AM or they move her to the general ward. I only made eight thousand today at the site."
Sam looked at his shoes. I knew he was broke too. Otunba had stripped him of everything for staying loyal to me.
"There is one place, sir," Sam said, his voice low. "But you won't like it. It’s the 'Night Market' at Garrison. There are men there who buy anything. Phones, jewelry... even blood."
I felt a shiver go down my spine. The Garrison Night Market was a place for desperate people. But then I looked through the glass at Bella. Her heart monitor was a steady green line. That line was the only thing connecting me to this world.
"I have nothing to sell, Sam," I said, holding up my empty hands. My wedding ring was gone—sold to pay for the initial deposit. My watch was gone. Even my shoes were falling apart.
"You have your suit jacket, sir," Sam pointed to the bundled-up cloth I was using as a pillow. "It’s bespoke Italian silk. Even dirty, the buttons are real silver. And..." he hesitated. "The blood bank across the street pays five thousand for a pint. If we both give... and we sell the jacket... we might make it."
I stared at him. A month ago, I was donating millions to blood drives. Now, I was considering selling my own blood to keep my daughter’s lights on.
"Let’s go," I said, standing up. My legs groaned, but I didn't care.
We walked across the dark street to a small, dim clinic. The smell of copper and rubbing alcohol was thick in the air. The man behind the desk didn't ask for my name. He just looked at my arm and pointed to a vinyl chair that was peeling at the edges.
I sat down. I watched the needle go in. I watched the dark red liquid flow into the bag. That’s for her, I thought. Every drop is another hour of her breathing. By the time we left the clinic and sold the silver buttons from my jacket to a hushed trader at the market, the sky was turning a bruised purple. Morning was coming.
My head was spinning from the blood loss. I felt like I was walking on clouds, and not the good kind. Sam had to hold my arm to keep me from falling into the gutter.
"We have it, sir," Sam whispered, counting the crumpled notes. "Twenty-two thousand. We made it."
We reached the nurse's station at exactly 5:45 AM. The sharp-faced nurse from last night was still there, finishing her shift. She looked at the pile of small, dirty bills I placed on her desk—money stained with cement dust and the sweat of the market.
"It's all there," I said, leaning heavily on the counter. "Twenty thousand for the medicine. Two thousand for the 'extra' tests."
She counted it slowly, her eyes widening. She looked at my pale face and the small bandage on my arm where the needle had been. For the first time, the ice in her expression melted just a little bit.
"You're a stubborn man, Mr. Elias," she said, her voice softer. "Go sit down. I'll update her chart. She stays in the ICU."
I didn't answer. I just walked back to Bella’s door and sank to the floor. I was exhausted, hungry, and lightheaded. But as the sun began to rise over the Lagos skyline, I smiled.
I was a poor man. I was a laborer. I was a blood-seller.
But today, my daughter was still alive.
- Writer
