The sterile white walls of the hospital room pulsed with a cold, clinical light. Each beep of the heart monitor was a hammer blow against my chest, the rhythmic rise and fall of my mother's chest a shallow mockery of life. She lay there, impossibly small against the crisp white sheets, her face pale and drawn. Fainted. The doctor called it dehydration and stress. But that was a lie, a hollow echo in the cavernous emptiness left by the truth.
David. The name clawed its way through my mind, a venomous snake slithering through the wreckage of my emotions. Every hushed phone call, every dinner missed with the flimsy excuse of a "business meeting," the fleeting nervousness that shadowed her smile whenever his name was mentioned – it all slammed into me now, a tidal wave of denial shattered by the brutal reality.
Three months. Just three measly months since my father's passing, and this leech of a man, a married man with a wife and a family, had wormed his way into the gaping wound left by grief. The anger, a viper long coiled and dormant, awoke with a venomous hiss. It twisted in my gut, a churning vortex of fury and despair.
The chair scraped back violently as I shoved myself to my feet. My hands trembled, mimicking the storm brewing within. Outside, the sterile white gave way to the cool embrace of the night. Stars twinkled down, indifferent to the turmoil within me. I needed air, and space to unleash the inferno threatening to consume me whole.
Hailing a cab with a desperate jerk of my arm, I practically flung myself inside, barking the address at the bewildered driver. The ride was a blur, the cityscape a distorted canvas through the haze of red clouding my vision. The building loomed ahead, a gleaming testament to David's success, a monument to his callous disregard.
I burst through the doors with the force of a hurricane, ignoring the startled squeak of the receptionist, her protests lost in the roar of my own rage. "David!" I bellowed, my voice raw and ragged with unshed tears.
He materialized from behind the frosted glass door, concern etched across his face. "Matthew? What's wrong?"
Wrong? The word mocked the immensity of the situation. In a heartbeat, the world narrowed down to that man and the fury that threatened to consume me. My fist connected with a sickening thud, the surprised yelp that escaped his lips swallowed by the roar in my ears.
He stumbled back, hand flying to his jaw, eyes widening in shock before morphing into a cold fury that mirrored my own. But before he could retaliate, I was on him, a whirlwind of punches fueled by the image of my mother, frail and broken. Each blow resonated with the knowledge that this man, with his comfortable life and perfect family, was the reason my mother was on the verge of collapse.
A dull ache blossomed on my shoulder as David managed to land a punch. Yet, the pain was a distant echo, lost in the storm of my emotions. But just as I lunged forward to deliver another blow, the room went silent.
The silence itself was a punch to the gut. It was then I saw him, a young man, no older than me, standing by the doorway, his face a mask of horror. His eyes, wide and terrified, were locked on the scene before him. Shame, hot and sticky, coated my tongue. What had I done? Violence, a raw and ugly thing, unleashed in front of a stranger. The betrayal in that young man's eyes mirrored the one festering within me.
David, catching his breath, straightened his tie, a cold anger replacing the initial shock. He didn't raise a hand to fight back, only spoke with a voice laced with ice. "Get him out of here."
The young man, hesitant at first, approached me slowly. Placing a firm hand on my arm, he said, "Come on. Let's go."
His touch, surprisingly strong, grounded me. The haze of rage began to lift, replaced by a crushing sense of defeat. The fight had drained the fire from me, leaving behind a desolate emptiness. Each reluctant step towards the exit echoed the weight of my actions.
Outside, the cool night air washed over me, the city lights mocking my rash actions. The young man, his face etched with a mixture of concern and disappointment, didn't let go until we were a good distance from the building. Finally, he released my arm, his gaze unwavering.
"Why?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Why would you do that to Mr. David?"
Guilt gnawed at me. How could I explain the tangled web of emotions, the fear, the anger, the pain that had driven me to such a primal outburst? My mother's face, pale and drawn, flashed in my mind.