When the Curtains Fall on Us

Three years after breaking up with Zachary, the damage in my spinal cord finally crushed the last of my nerve endings. In the final clear moments of my life, I took my wheelchair and went alone to that abandoned lighthouse by the coast—the one we had once promised to buy together. I buried the worn-out ballet shoes, the ones I had danced in for him countless times, deep inside the pile of stones beneath the tower. "Zachary, this is the last dance I'll ever give you." "I don't think I'll ever stand again." The moment the words left my lips, all sensation drained completely from my legs. Right behind me, a voice so familiar it tore into my bones spoke up. "Excuse me, miss. Can we borrow your wheelchair? My wife twisted her ankle." Three years after breaking up with Zachary, my spinal cord injury deteriorated into its end stages. For my remaining days, I came to the coastal lighthouse. This was the place we had once promised to buy together. I pulled out my battered ballet shoes and buried them into the pile of stones. These legs once danced Swan Lake for him. They had run through storms just to see him. Now, they were completely ruined. As I laid down the very last stone, a sharp pang shot through my legs, followed immediately by total numbness. Just then, a voice called out from behind me. "Hey. You." My entire body froze. The man walked around to stand right in front of me, his tall frame blocking the ocean view before my eyes. Zachary. It had been three years. The cruel edge around his sharp features was sharper than ever, and he wore an impeccably tailored designer suit. The look he gave me was dripping with sheer disgust. Clinging to his side was a woman, Fiona. She held his arm tightly, giving me an appraising once-over before speaking up in a soft, sweet voice. "Zachary, don't be so harsh. You're scaring the poor lady." Zachary’s gaze flicked across my face, then down to my wheelchair. "Fiona twisted her ankle. She can't walk." He didn't even bother to look directly at me as he explained to Fiona, though every word was clearly aimed straight at my chest. "You're a cripple anyway. Sitting there does nothing for you." "Lend her the chair. Don't waste our time." "How much do you want? Name your price. Stop playing dead." A violent spasm gripped my chest, so painful I could barely breathe. He used to say I was the purest light in his entire world. Three years ago, his mother had already made it clear over the phone that she only recognized Fiona as her future daughter-in-law. "You're just a penniless dancer. You really think a nobody like you could ever land a man like my son and cling to him forever?" "Zachary's future wife will only ever be Fiona. She's the heiress to a multi-billion-dollar corporation!" Now, they stood together. And I was the pathetic outsider. I bit down hard on my lower lip, trying to speak, but a tight knot blocked my throat. Zachary's face darkened. He leaned down, his breath cold against my ear, his voice freezing. "Clara, what are you playing at in front of me?" "Three years ago, when you were begging people to sleep with you for cash, where was all this pride?" "What? Did your new sugar daddy make you forget what kind of trash you actually are?" That car crash three years ago. The medical diagnosis. The long, endless days and nights waiting to die in a hospital bed. To keep from dragging him down with me, I had used the cruelest, most vicious lies to force him to let go. I swallowed back the burning tears, forcing my lips into a flat, detached smile. "Mr. Vance, you flatter yourself." "I just think... it's dirty." The second those words left my mouth, lightning split the sky, and heavy raindrops slammed down against the earth. Fiona gasped, immediately retreating into his chest. "Oh god, it's pouring! Zachary, our car is parked all the way down at the foot of the hill!" Zachary's eyes darted past my shoulder, landing on the van I had parked nearby. His eyes narrowed. Before he could even speak, I cut him off in a cold, steady voice. "My car doesn't take strangers." He suddenly let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Clara, do you actually think I'm asking for your permission?" He grabbed the handles of my wheelchair with brutal force. "You're giving us a ride today whether you like it or not!"The downpour drenched all three of us in an instant. Zachary gave me no chance to resist, shoving my wheelchair violently toward the van. The wheels jolted over the rough gravel. Every single bump sent a tearing, agonizing pain through my broken spine. I gripped the armrests tightly, my nails digging deep into my palms just to keep from screaming out loud. Fiona hurried behind him, her wet silk dress clinging to her body. "Zachary, please don't be like this. Miss Clara has special needs..." Zachary yanked the car door open. "What special needs could she possibly have?" "She's a cripple who loves throwing temper tantrums." "Clara, this pathetic, dying-swan act of yours..." "Could you drop it already? Looking at it makes me want to throw up." Using one arm, he hoisted me and my wheelchair into the back seat. Then, he slipped into the front passenger seat. That used to be his exclusive spot. Fiona had no choice but to bite her lip with a pouting expression, climbing into the back seat beside me. The door slammed shut, and the air inside the vehicle grew suffocatingly tense. Soaked to the bone, I shivered violently. The old spinal injury flared up agonizingly against the damp, cold storm. As the car wound down the bumpy mountain road, every jolt felt like a blade hacking at my bones. I bit down on my lip until I tasted the warm, metallic tang of blood. Zachary caught a glimpse of my pale face and bleeding lip through the rearview mirror. A flicker of irritation crossed his eyes. "What? Does riding in your own car feel like an insult now?" "Or do you think we're dirtying up your precious space?" I took a shaky breath, forcing all my focus onto controlling the hand-adapted steering wheel and the road ahead. His eyes drifted down to the small pill bottle sitting in the center console. "What's that?" It was a heavy-duty prescription painkiller. I had torn off all the labels long ago. I couldn't let him know. "Just multivitamins," I lied, my voice trembling slightly from the sheer agony tearing through my body. He sneered. "Oh, Clara, taking care of your health now?" "What, did your sponsor wear you out too hard?" "Starting on pills so young just to keep yourself running?" Fiona piped up instantly from behind him, her voice dripping with sweet vanity. "Miss Clara sure knows how to treat herself." "Unlike me. All I ever worry about is Zachary. He works so hard, running around all day." As she spoke, she leaned forward, seemingly by accident, and knocked over my water bottle. The cold water spilled right over the blanket covering my useless legs. "Oh no!" she shrieked dramatically. "I'm so sorry, Miss Clara! I didn't mean to!" "Wait, Miss Clara, you can't feel your legs anyway, right?" "You probably won't catch a cold. It's not like you can move them anyway, can you?" She reached out, intending to pull my wet blanket aside. I snapped out my hand, clamping down hard onto her wrist, my gaze dead and freezing. "Don't touch me." Fiona flinched back in shock, turning toward Zachary with tear-filled, wounded eyes. "Zachary, I just wanted to help her..." Zachary's face turned completely cold. "Clara, what the hell is wrong with you?!" "Don't bite the hand that feeds you!" The pain was causing muscle spasms to ripple through my core, cold sweat soaking through my clothes. I had to pour every scrap of strength I had left into steering the car. With immense difficulty, I finally brought the car to a halt outside the small motel at the foot of the hill.The moment the car stopped, Zachary pushed the door open, popped his umbrella, and walked around to Fiona's side to open her door. He helped her step out, his voice turning gentle. "Careful. The ground is slick." "Can you walk? Do you want me to carry you?" "Are you cold?" Throughout it all, he never cast a single glance my way. The two of them huddled under the single umbrella and walked toward the motel lobby, leaving me abandoned in the car. I sat in the driver's seat, waiting for the worst of the pain to ebb away, before lowering the window and pressing a small remote buzzer. It was the signal I had arranged with the motel owner, Mrs. Miller. Moments later, a clerk dashed out under a large umbrella, pulling an aluminum ramp from my trunk and locking it between the van door and the pavement. "Miss Clara, you're here." I gave him a weak nod, steering my electric wheelchair down the ramp and onto the ground. By the time I entered the motel lobby, Zachary and Fiona were already standing at the front desk. "One room, please." Zachary slapped down his black card and ID. The receptionist checked the computer and shook her head apologetically. "I'm so sorry, sir. It's peak season, and with this sudden storm, every single room in the motel is completely booked." Fiona leaned heavily against Zachary, her voice cracking into a whimper. "Zachary, what are we going to do? My foot hurts so much, I can barely stand." Zachary frowned, his knuckles rapping sharply against the counter. "Check again! If you can't find one," he threatened, his voice dropping dangerously low, "I'll make sure this place disappears from the block by tomorrow morning!" Terrified, the receptionist's voice began to tremble. "Sir, there really, really aren't any left. The last executive suite was reserved over the phone just five minutes ago." Just then, the motel owner, Mrs. Miller, hurried out from the back office. The moment she saw me, a warm smile broke across her face, completely bypassing Zachary and Fiona. She strode over to me, taking my icy hands in hers. "Oh, my sweet Clara! You finally made it!" "Honey, why do you look so pale?!" "Didn't I tell you over the phone not to rush? Safety comes first!" As she spoke, she moved behind my wheelchair and took over the handles. "Come on, let's get you inside. Don't sit here catching a draft." She pushed me toward the elevator, talking loudly enough for the entire lobby to hear. "Your old suite—I've kept it reserved for you the whole time!" "Knowing you were coming, I had the housekeeping staff scrub it down several times." "I even had a warm herbal bath drawn in your bathroom right now. Go soak and warm up." "It's the exact formula Dr. Evans prescribed for your chronic nerve pain." Her old suite? Kept reserved the whole time? Dr. Evans? All color drained instantly from Zachary's face. He froze on the spot, his fists clenching until his knuckles popped audibly. He whipped his head around, glaring murderously at my back as I was wheeled toward the elevator. The moment the elevator doors began to slide shut, I caught his eyes through the narrowing gap one last time. In those dark eyes, nothing remained except freezing cruelty, blind rage, and absolute contempt. Silently, his lips moved, shaping three venomous words without making a sound: You disgust me.The elevator doors clicked shut, severing his gaze. I slumped back into the wheelchair, entirely drained of strength. The second I reached the room, I let out a trembling breath. The moment the door locked behind me, every shred of my composed facade shattered into dust. Agony struck like a tidal wave. Drenched in cold sweat, black spots danced across my vision. Trembling, I fished a painkiller syringe from my bag, shoved up my sleeve, and jammed the needle straight into my arm. Yet as the liquid emptied into my veins, the anticipated relief never arrived. Instead, the pain flared into an unbearable, tearing torment. My vision plunged into darkness. I slid from the wheelchair, collapsing heavily onto the carpeted floor. The empty syringe rolled across the floorboards. BAM! The door was kicked open with tremendous force, the latch snapping clean off. Radiating pure fury, his eyes bloodshot, Zachary stormed inside. Seeing me sprawled on the ground, clothes disheveled, he froze for a split second before the shock twisted into raw revulsion. "Clara, are you really this cheap? This desperate for a man?" "I literally just walked away, and you're already going into heat?" "Where is he? Where did you hide that bastard Evans?!" "Tell him to get the hell out here!" "I want to see what kind of dog," he growled, "dares touch the trash I threw away!" He grabbed a fistful of my hair. A sharp, searing pain shot across my scalp, blending with the agonizing fire in my spine. I was on the verge of blacking out. I couldn't squeeze out a single syllable through the pain. I could only clutch the carpet, gasping desperately for air. Right then, Zachary's phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID—it was his mother. He swiped to answer and deliberately hit the speakerphone button. Mrs. Vance's sharp, commanding voice rang out through the room. "Zachary, where are you and Fiona now?" "I just spoke with the wedding planners. The date is set for the eighth of next month. The venue, the guest list—I've already..." Zachary cut her off, his voice dead and frigid. "Mom, I'm busy. We'll talk later." He hung up, his eyes snapping back down to pin me to the floor. "Did you hear that, Clara?" "Next month, I'm getting married." "And you... you can only lie right here," he spat, "waiting for random men to come use you." My whole body shuddered. I snapped my head up to look at him. Tears broke past my defenses, pouring uncontrollably down my cheeks. He looked right through them, snatching my wrist and dragging me violently up from the floor. "Are you really that starved for a man, huh?" "I was gone for five minutes, and you were already desperate to find someone else to keep you company?" His fingers brushed against the inside of my forearm. Over the uneven, bruised skin pitted with dozens of needle marks from years of daily injections. Zachary's entire frame went rigid. He looked down, his pupils shrinking into pinpricks. Slowly, an inch at a time, he peeled my sleeve all the way back. That hideous, bruised, needle-scarred skin was exposed entirely to the cold air. His expression twisted instantly, a slight tremor bleeding into his voice. "Clara, what the hell kind of game are you playing now?!" My heart plummeted straight into an abyss. It was over. Marshaling every ounce of strength left in my broken body, I tried to yank my sleeve back down. He clamped down like a vise, refusing to let go. Zachary's voice dropped, terrifyingly quiet. "Drugs?" "Clara, you're shooting up just so you can spread your legs for men?" "Does it feel that good? Good enough to throw your damn life away?!" Black spots swam before my eyes from the pain. I wanted to explain, but the agony radiating from my spine robbed me of even the breath needed to part my lips. "Zachary, don't say that..." Fiona stepped in through the ruined doorway, hypocritically tugging at his arm. "Miss Clara might just... be getting cosmetic injections or something." "She used to be so obsessed with her looks. Now that she's in a wheelchair, she must care even more." Zachary's eyes turned lethal. "Get out of my way." He shoved Fiona's hand off, dropping down on one knee to clamp his fingers brutally around my chin. "Talk." "Who is he? Dr. Evans?" "Is this how he treats you?" "Keeping you hooked on this garbage just to survive?" Looking into the disgust and boiling rage in his eyes, my heart was carved into ribbons, piece by piece. At that exact moment, someone knocked frantically on the open doorframe. Mrs. Miller walked in carrying a wooden basin filled with steaming water. "Clara, honey, the herbal soak is ready, let me help you..." Her words died in her throat the second she saw the violent scene inside. Mrs. Miller instantly set the basin down and spread her arms wide, shielding me behind her. "Mr. Vance! What the hell do you think you're doing?!" "Clara is very sick! Take your crazy tantrums somewhere else!" Zachary straightened up, towering over us with chilling disdain. "Sick?" He let out a sharp bark of laughter, soaked in pure mockery. "Looks to me like she's doing fantastic! Full of nasty little tricks!" He pointed a finger at me, sneering at Mrs. Miller. "Why don't you ask her what all those marks on her arm are?" "Why don't you go ask that precious Dr. Evans what kind of premium shit he's pumping into her veins?!" With that, he cast one final, revolting look down at me. "Clara, you make me sick."