Cracked Sources - B03E03 - Young C.c

Cracked Sources – B03E03

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“You can’t be serious, Doctor,” Beatrice said. Her voice
louder than usual.
“I’m sorry. There’s nothing more we can do for him,” The
doctor apologized again.
Beatrice understood the hard way why people hated Government-controlled
hospitals. If Andrew had been carried to a private hospital from the explosion
site, they wouldn’t be having this conversation. The doctor was telling her
Andrew would be taken off life-support if he didn’t show any sign of
improvement before the end of the day, because they were running out of
bed-space for other patients. Beatrice raised her eyes to Akin. He had nothing
to say; he let the doctor go peacefully even after threatening the survival of
his only surviving heir.
“What is wrong with you?” Beatrice asked.
Akin
quietly looked up. “You heard what the doctor said, there’s nothing that can be
done if Andrew doesn’t wake up by himself,” he said.
            “He can be taken to another
hospital, that’s something that can be done.”
Tears
streamed down her cheeks. She took a good look at Andrew, and imagined what it
would be like tomorrow, beside his lifeless body. “Let’s take him to another
hospital,” Beatrice suggested.
Akin looked on: he had nothing to say.
“You can’t be serious, doctor.”
Those
words echoed a while through the clinic’s passage; they were from Mrs.
Patrick’s mouth. The news she had just received was the worst since the news of
her father’s death ten years ago.
“I’m sorry, but your husband might not be able to walk again,” Dr.
Gusanu reiterated.
“Why?” She asked, shouting. “Tell me, why?” She asked again.
Without awaiting a reply, she held both her hands up against the doctor’s coat.
“What have you not tried? Do so. I’ll try to make the money available, no
matter the amount.”
“I’m sorry, ma, there’s nothing more I can do,” Dr. Gusanu said.
He was a young man, in his late 20’s, and could understand her pain by putting
his mother in her shoes.
“Hey, baby,” Patrick called for his wife. He had just awoken
and heard her sobbing.
She
let go of Dr. Gusanu, “Thank you for everything so far,” she said, and gave him
a light pat on the shoulder before walking away.
            “My love,” she greeted Patrick.
Patrick
could see through her. With their reignited love, he could better tell when she
was sad: it was written all over her face now. “What’s the matter?”
            “I want you back home as soon as
possible,” she tried to play modest.
            “Tell me what it is, I can handle
whatever it is,” he demanded, “Stop treating me like an invalid,” he added.
Both their eyes naturally drifted to his heavily bandaged legs.
Mrs.
Patrick started to cry. It brought Patrick’s heart to see her like that and he
unable to console her. “It’s okay,” he said, “It’ll all be alright.”
            “It won’t be,” she muttered. “The
doctor said you might not be able to walk again,” she said.
Patrick
smiled, “Is that why you’re troubled?” He asked. “I know already. I haven’t
been able to feel my legs since the day I got here, and I’ve resigned myself to
fate, whichever way it decides to blow its wind, I’m ready,” he said
reassuringly.
Mrs. Patrick was dumbfounded. In her tears, she looked at her husband
very well, her attention was on the details of his eyes, they bore sincerity,
they bore love. “I love you, Patrick,” she said. She held onto his hands.
“I love you too,’ he replied. They both chuckled.
Akin stood before the large body-mirror at the end of the hallway. As
he dead-stared, his eyes caught sight of a fresh cut beneath his lower lip; he touched
it. The pain he felt pleased him very much. He touched it again, and again, and
again; the pleasure he derived from the pain was indescribable. He hurried into
the rest room and once in the confines of its privacy, he brought out a pocket
knife, one that was given to him by his mother years. He rolled up his sleeves
and began to cut himself; his arm.
He
continued mutilating himself, and with his blood being drained, came blurry
vision. For a moment, it was as though Akin’s reflection in the mirror didn’t
move in accordance with his body. He was getting weaker, gasping for breath,
and trying desperately to remain standing. He wiped his eyes hoping it was just
a momentary flux.
            “You,” his reflection spoke to him.
            “Me?” Akin summoned strength to ask.
“Yes, you.”
Akin
wasn’t surprised. He was captivated. Watching his reflection converse with him
was a genuine treat for a man who had lived through all he had recently.
“I haven’t seen you since The
Ogbu
incident,” Akin said.
“That was over twenty years ago. I come only when you’re in deep
mess,” It said. It paced around its own side for a while, and suddenly appeared
in front of Akin. “Stop denying your pain, embrace it, and stop acting
pitiable,” it said, and disappeared.
            Akin
was stunned. He fell to the floor. As though a surge of awareness passed
through his body, he became conscious of his pool of blood; it scared him enough
to almost knock him unconscious. His breathing was getting heavier. By the time
he opened his eyes again, he was surrounded by doctors trying to keep him
alive.
At the firm, the entire east wing of the building which used to house
the conference room had been sealed off by the police pending the conclusion of
the investigation. It had been five days since the explosion, yet, not a single
police officer had visited the blast site for inspection. The firm was without
guardianship, as most of its directors were killed in the explosion, leaving
Patricia in the position to offer herself to lead the others pending when
Andrew or Akin returned from the hospital.
Her announcement came as a surprise to many, yet, no one opposed the
idea because to most of them left in the firm, Patricia was the most qualified;
the firm needed a face to continue running effectively, they were at risk of
losing their long-time clients.
Patricia
smiled at the unanimous agreement.
“Excuse me,” Ms. Caroline, a young female paralegal, said.
Patricia
had taken note of her during her speech, the lady had been quiet all through
the meeting, until now.
“You have the floor,” Patricia said, wearing an obviously
fake smile.
“I do not like this idea of you being our leader, what happens when
Mr. Akin or Andrew returns?”
Patricia
wryly smiled. “Since the explosion happened, these two men haven’t been in
their right state of mind. It is up to us to put things straight. This company
belongs to us,” she said.
Her
speech drew enough admiration from the general public, everyone, save for Ms.
Caroline, was impressed.
“Thank you, Patricia,” Caroline said, “But I have someone better
in mind to be lead the firm back to its former days of glory.” She walked
towards the CEO’s seat, but stopped at Patricia’s seat, positioned next to the throne, and said, “Patricia, I want you
to meet, Abigail.”
A
young lady walked in. She was tall, beautiful, and struck a confident pose at
the doorpost.  “My name is Abigail Akin, Barrister Akin’s only daughter,
and his last remaining heir. And you’re sitting on my chair.”
The
room charged with excitement. Patricia looked dumbfounded.
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