If He Dies, He Dies

I poured my life, my health, into Vicky Sterling's startup.

Now she's a celebrated CEO, and I'm just a recovering patient, battling Crohn's.

Her "conceptual artist" lover, Julian, fills our home with his presence.

One evening, Julian, knowing my strict diet, offered me a rich, forbidden pasta.

Under his watchful smirk, I took a bite.

Within the hour, internal fire consumed me.

I crawled to Vicky, begging for the hospital, but she dismissed my agony.

She called me "dramatic," prioritized Julian's fake illness, and brutally kicked my surgical scars.

Her assistant Brenda then locked me in my room, where Julian's venomous brown recluse bit me.

When paramedics arrived, Vicky blocked the ambulance, chillingly stating, "If he dies, he dies!"

How could the woman I loved, the one I sacrificed everything for, actively ensure my agonizing death?

Was I just a burden to be eliminated, a mere inconvenience?

As darkness encroached, I used my last ounce of strength, not to call 911 again, but the one man who could truly help: Uncle Frank.

My story wasn't ending; it was just beginning.

Mike Miller lay on the recliner, the dull ache in his abdomen a constant reminder of the Crohn's surgery. He'd poured everything into Vicky's startup, Sterling Innovations, his own garage business a forgotten dream, his health a casualty. Now, Vicky was a CEO, and he was...recovering.

The sound of laughter drifted from the dining room, Julian Vance, Vicky's old college flame, was holding court. Julian, a "conceptual artist" Mike privately thought was a pretentious leech, had been a fixture since Vicky's success.

A plate appeared before him, offered by Julian himself, a smirk playing on his lips. "Thought you might like something with a bit more flavor, Mike. That bland stuff must be depressing."

It was a pasta dish, creamy and rich, exactly what his doctors had warned him against. He'd explained his strict diet to everyone.

"Julian, I can't," Mike started, his voice weak.

"Nonsense, a little won't hurt," Julian insisted, his eyes glinting.

Vicky swept in, glamorous in a designer dress. "What's this, darling?" she asked Julian, not Mike.

"Just trying to cheer Mike up," Julian said, all charm.

Before Mike could protest further, Julian had spooned a small portion onto a side plate and pushed it towards him. The pressure to not "cast a pall" was immense. He took a tentative bite.

Within an hour, fire tore through his gut. He doubled over, a gasp escaping him. Internal bleeding, he knew the signs.

He stumbled towards Vicky, who was laughing at something Julian said. "Vicky... hospital... now."

She frowned. "Mike, don't be dramatic. Julian's not feeling too well himself, actually. He thinks he's coming down with something, poor dear."

Mike clutched his stomach. "This isn't... a joke. I need... the specialist."

Vicky's eyes hardened. "I had to give your follow-up appointment to Julian. He's got a terrible sympathetic flu, all stressed from your illness. He needs to see Dr. Albright."

"He faked it," Mike choked out, agony making his vision swim. "I need the ER."

Vicky's expression turned to disdain. "You're always making things about you. Julian is sensitive." She turned her back on him.

He fumbled for his phone, his fingers slick with sweat, and dialed 911.

Vicky whirled around when she heard him speaking to the dispatcher. Her face was a mask of fury.

"How dare you?" she hissed. "You're trying to embarrass me?"

She snapped her fingers. "Brenda!"

Her executive assistant, Brenda, materialized, her face a mirror of Vicky's contempt.

"Take him to his room," Vicky commanded. "He's just jealous Julian is getting attention."

Brenda, strong despite her slender frame, grabbed Mike's arm. He tried to resist, a fresh wave of pain making him cry out.

"Please, Vicky... I'm bleeding..."

Vicky stepped closer, her eyes cold. "You're faking."

Then, she kicked his abdomen, right where the surgical scars were still tender.

Mike screamed, a raw, tearing sound, as he collapsed.

Brenda dragged Mike to his room, her grip like iron. He lay curled on the bed, coughing, a metallic taste in his mouth. He spat into a tissue, bright red blood.

"Look," he pleaded, holding it out. "I'm not faking."

Brenda glanced at it, unmoved. "Mr. Vance said you'd try anything for attention."

She pulled out her phone. "Mrs. Sterling wants an update." After a brief, whispered conversation, she hung up. "She says you're to stay put. She's tired of your theatrics."

Later, Brenda returned, a small, covered terrarium in her hands. "Mr. Vance thought you might like some company. A little pet to keep your spirits up."

She placed it on the nightstand and lifted the lid. A brown spider, lean and ugly, scurried out.

"Brown Recluse," Brenda said, a cruel smile playing on her lips. "Julian's very fond of them." She backed out of the room, closing the door softly.

Mike stared in horror. He was too weak to get up quickly. The spider moved with unnerving speed, disappearing under the bed.

Panic seized him. He tried to push himself up, but the pain in his abdomen was a vise. He felt a sharp sting on his leg.

He swiped at it, his hand connecting with something small and hard. He'd crushed it.

Hours passed in a haze of escalating pain, fever, and delirium. His leg throbbed, a dark, ugly mark spreading from the bite.

The door opened, and Brenda peered in. "Still putting on a show?"

She saw the crushed spider on the floor. Her eyes widened, not with concern for him, but with anger.

"You killed Julian's pet! He'll be furious!"

She took out her phone again, presumably to report to Julian or Vicky.

"He said if you were still being difficult..." She walked to the AC thermostat and cranked it down to its lowest setting. The air began to chill rapidly.

"Have a nice nap, Mike," she said, and left, locking the door from the outside.

The cold seeped into his bones, his body already struggling. He shivered violently, his teeth chattering. Darkness encroached.

A distant knocking sound. Muffled voices.

The door opened again. Not Brenda. A young man in a food delivery uniform.

"Uh, delivery for Mr. Vance?" he asked, looking around the opulent but freezing room, his eyes finally landing on Mike.

Mike tried to speak, but only a croak emerged.

The driver's eyes widened at Mike's state, the discolored leg, the blood on the discarded tissue.

He pulled out his phone. "Yeah, this is Dispatch. My customer, Mrs. Sterling, said to leave the food and ignore... uh... her husband. But he looks really bad. Like, dying bad."

A pause.

"Yes, I'm calling 911. Right now."