"Maybe he's dying."
I didn't wait for his reaction. I turned my back on his shock and staggered out of the club, blood dripping from my fingertips.
By the time I pushed open the front door, I was numb.
A crash echoed from the kitchen.
Jonathan was on the floor, struggling to hoist himself from his overturned wheelchair. He looked up, eyes rimmed red, like a guilty child caught in the act.
"Hazel... I just wanted to make you something to eat..." He slurred his words, saliva and tears running down his chin. "I'm useless. I'm just trash!"
He looked the part perfectly—a man paralyzed for years, helpless and broken.
But as I watched him, a memory surfaced through the haze.
Before his "diagnosis," Jonathan had severe mysophobia. He used to scrub his hands raw twenty times a day. Wouldn't tolerate a speck of dust on his designer suits. Yet for Valerie, he had endured this squalor for five years.
Five years.
I had been played like a fiddle, dancing to his tune while he perfected his performance.
I wanted to cut his chest open just to see if his heart was flesh or stone.
When I didn't answer, he hung his head.
"Hazel, do you hate me now?" He gripped the armrest, veins bulging from the feigned effort. "You should go. A burden like me... I'm just dragging you down. Leave me here to rot."
I didn't speak. I righted the wheelchair and hoisted him into it, then turned to the sink, wrung out a warm towel, and wiped his face and hands. The movements were mechanical—a routine etched into my bones over five agonizing years.
Suddenly, he caught my wrist. His eyes fixed on the fresh cut on my palm.
"How did this happen? Who hurt you?"
The concern looked so real. Bile rose in my throat.
"Someone who looks exactly like you," I whispered, staring straight into his eyes. "At the Starlight Club."
Jonathan's jaw tightened.
I let out a dry laugh. "But I know it wasn't you. My brother would never lie to me, right?"
Guilt flickered in his gaze before he looked away. "Of course not. You're my only family, Hazel. I would never deceive you."
I swallowed the burning lump in my throat, forcing back the tears. Without another word, I wheeled him to his room.
Later, while I was cooking, I heard his hushed voice drifting from the bedroom.
"Just listen to me. Be a good girl. I've prepared the biggest birthday gala for you. Tomorrow, I'll celebrate with you personally."
Valerie's voice crackled through the speaker, feigning concern. "But isn't tomorrow Hazel's birthday too? Won't she be upset if you're with me?"
"Silly girl, you are the only sister I treasure. Your happiness is all that matters. Hazel hasn't celebrated a birthday in five years. She's used to it. One more missed year won't kill her."
"I knew you loved me best!"
I stood frozen in the hallway. Finally, I untied my apron, dropped it on the counter, and walked out.
When Jonathan emerged, I was gone.
On the table sat a bowl of noodles, boiled to mush for easy swallowing, and a single expensive imported pill.
He knew I had the night shift.
As he looked at the food, my pale face flickered through his mind. The cut on my hand. My back at the stove—so thin I looked like I might snap in a strong wind.
