Dying On My Own Terms

Gilles

ffocating opulence of the estate, the pity in his grandmother's eyes, and the barely concealed disdain i

of surprise mixed with what looked like relief i

afely on a stain on his expensiv

g was an alien concept. But then a small, almost imperceptible

onger a nuisance. He thought I wouldn't cling. And in that, he was right. The old Kris

People rushed past, their faces a blur, their lives a mystery. I felt like an alien. I walked aimlessly for a wh

ee shop and a dry cleaner. "Jett's Bagels & Brews," the sign read, hand-paint

tible flutter. A job. Something to do

ce framed by a messy beard, was wiping down the counter. Jett, I pres

he asked, his voice

the word feeling r

a hint of something I couldn't quite p

h, raw and unvarnished, came out without thought. Three years

owly. "Cash job. Twelve an hour. Ea

eline. "Yes," I said, my voice gai

ith a decisive nod. "Tomo

tears wouldn't come. The

d a used car dealership on the outskirts of the city. The salesman, a man with too much gel in his hair and too little patience, looked me up and down with ope

id, holding out t

ed. He didn't care about my story, my past, my lac

ough and a roar, a strange, unfamiliar sensation bloomed in my chest. Ownership. It was a decrepit

he city lights began to twinkle as dusk fell, a million tiny stars mirroring the sudden, fragile hope i

e. Dozier' s penthouse, where he insisted I stay "until I get on my feet," w

ley, a secret kept close. The thought of him seeing this old car, of him knowing I wa

d. The past weighed heavy in every expensive piece of furniture, every polished surface. I needed clothes

die. I found it, still locked, still dusty. Inside, amidst forgotten seasonal decorations

ably mine. I pulled it out, a faint smell of old lavender clinging to it. It was a relic from a past

my lower back, where the fabric rubbed. I ignored