Chapter 24 Lucy
LUCY
{A week after her last treatment}
This morning, I went outside for the first time in a very long time.
I typed up my newest blog; heart feeling bloated with happiness.
For one perfect moment, I existed not as a patient or a medical curiosity, but simply as a girl feeling sunshine on her face.
Sure, I still had to wear a suit, still had that stupid barrier between me and the world.
But I was outside! And the sunlight was warmer than I ever knew it could be.
Do you know how long I’ve been wanting to walk in the Brightfield gardens?
I even picked petals off a flower. Though, I couldn’t feel the texture and couldn’t smell its scent, I held nature in my grasp.
And I did something I hadn’t done since I was a child.
I asked the flower the most important question in the world. What happens next?
Petal one. I’m going to live!
Petal two. I’m going to die.
I’m going to live! I’m going to die.
Purple petals, one by one, falling to the grass.
Guess what the last petal was?
I paused, frowning. I usually tried not to include too much darkness. But this time I didn’t redact the truth. I let it spill out with abandon.
The last petal was I’m going to die. I don’t accept that.
I’ve spent so much time waiting to die. Waiting to live feels alien.
But it’s a beautiful thing, even if it’s fragile.
I wanted to stay outside all day… but the small oxygen tank ran low.
My lungs tightened, and I couldn’t get a full breath.
Back inside, I had to use supplemental oxygen for hours to regulate.
It was worth it though. So very worth it.
I just want to be normal. I want to have my days not revolve around sickness.
I closed the laptop without publishing the post. For some reason, it made me feel too vulnerable. Maybe I worried if I sent the words out into the world, they’d be free but somehow I’d stay caged.
The first door of my room’s double entrance whooshed, sanitizing spray fogged down, and then the second door slid open. Doctor Emerson entered, wearing a simple surgical mask instead of the heavy protective gear. He waggled his eyebrows and pointed at the mask, as if I couldn’t see it for myself.
"Look at you," I said with a smile. "So casual. Practically naked."
"Progress, Lucy. Real progress." Doctor Emerson pulled up the rolling stool beside my bed.
"Your immune system is strengthening. The gene therapy is working better than we could have hoped.
Though, I must admit," he leaned closer to me conspiratorially, “I dislike Doctor Mercer immensely and only put up with him for your sake.”
“Taking one for the team,” I nodded, “You’re a real friend.” Then I leaned closer too and raised my eyebrows. “He looks at me like I’m his prized lab rat and has the bedside manner of a morgue fridge.”
We laughed together, then Doc Emerson straightened his posture and crossed his arms.
“You are sort of his prized patient, Lucy.”
“Because I’m the only one who didn’t die?” I said bluntly, half kidding.
But Doctor Emerson just cleared his throat and averted his gaze. I’d accidentally hit the nail on the head.
I traced the edge of my blanket with my finger. “It was nice to go outside today. I mean, except for the whole ‘still need to wear stupid protective gear thing.” I frowned, feeling suddenly sullen. What if it didn’t get better than this? What if I still had to live a half-life?
"Not so long ago, you couldn't go outside at all.
" His voice carried that gentle firmness I'd grown to recognize—the tone he used when I needed perspective. "Your entire body is repairing damage from a lifetime of sickness, and it’s doing so at lightning speed. Even so, your idea of normal may not be attainable, Lucy. You need to come to terms with that.”
“Tell me something I don’t know, Doc. The mirror,” I lifted one hand and pointed a finger towards myself, then drew an air circle around my face, “made sure I knew normal wasn’t going to happen. No one told me I’d become a paper white freakazoid with grandma hair.”
“Yes, well, the physical changes on the outside were unexpected. Yet, I think the new look suits you.”
“Sure, maybe I’ll start a new beauty trend. We’ll call it ‘sickly Victorian child’ with melanin deficiency.”
Emerson laughed as I flipped my prematurely silver hair over my shoulder.
It shone metallic in some light, snowy white in others.
My skin was the same way. Translucent alabaster under the facility fluorescent glows, shimmery pearl in real sunlight.
My blue-green veins were always visible enough to trace with my fingertips.
And my eyes… a jarringly bright emerald now instead of a deeper forest.
"Maybe I'll rebrand it as 'ethereal otherworldly being,'" I said, trying to keep my tone light. "Sounds more marketable than 'sickly Victorian child.'"
Doctor Emerson chuckled, but his eyes held something deeper—a mix of pride and concern that I'd grown accustomed to seeing. "I do think people would find something like immortal elf more appealing.”
“I suppose,” I mused.
Doc Emerson cleared his throat. “Look, Lucy," he said, his tone shifting slightly. "The Eros Institute wants to transfer you to their headquarters in Seattle."
My breath caught. "Seattle? As in... not here anymore?"
"Yes, and I know it’s a huge change, but I truly believe they’re the best place for you now. Being there means you’ll get the life you want sooner. And..." he hesitated, choosing his words carefully, "they want to get you in their mate database. You could be matched before you’re fully recovered."
Reality crashed over me like a giant, swallowing wave. The contract. The database. The matching program that had been the price of my survival. In the desperate fight to stay alive, I'd pushed that part to the back of my mind, focusing only on making it through each treatment.
“So, I get to survive just to become a product on a shelf, eventually bought by someone with, I’m guessing, a boatload of money.” I spoke flatly, earlier joy evaporated. I couldn’t be made. I’d agreed to this. I’d wanted to survive, even at the price of exchanging one cage for another.
Doctor Emerson winced. "I know it was easier to agree to things when you were doing everything possible to stay alive, Lucy. I also know how much you might want to break that contract. But you still need them. You aren’t totally cured yet. You’re a miracle, yes, but a miracle in progress.”
I turned away from him to look out the small window. As one often did, a bird flitted past the glass.
Free. So damn free.
Flying wherever it wanted.
I’d never be like that.
"I get it," I finally said, turning back to him. "I signed the contract. I agreed to this. It's just..."
"Overwhelming?" Doctor Emerson supplied.
"Terrifying," I corrected. "I've lived here forever. This place, this room, and everyone at Brightfield are home. Leaving here means no barriers, no safety net, no familiar faces. And I’ve never even dated or kissed someone or…" I swallowed hard.
Doctor Emerson's expression softened. "Lucy, I've known you for a great many years. You're stronger than you realize. This treatment didn't just rebuild your immune system—it revealed what was always there beneath the disease. Resilience. Determination. A stubborn refusal to give up."
“What if they match me with a total asshole? What if it’s a pack and they all hate me?” I frowned down at my bedsheet and started absentmindedly picking at some fuzz. "What if it's someone who just wants an Omega trophy?" My voice caught on the last word. "I know I agreed to it, but—"
"The Eros Institute doesn’t just throw Omegas to the highest bidder, Lucy,” Doctor Emerson said, his tone gentle but firm. "Their matching is scientifically based on compatibility factors. Physical, emotional, psychological—"
"But ultimately, I don't get a choice," I interrupted. "I’m alive, but I signed away my future.”
He sighed, the sound heavy with an admission he couldn't voice aloud. We both knew the truth—the contract I'd signed when death seemed imminent had stripped me of autonomy I'd never fully appreciated until now. Autonomy means nothing when you’re one foot in the grave.
"When is the transfer?" I asked, forcing strength into my voice.
He hesitated long enough that I knew I’d hate his answer.
"Friday. You’ll take a medical flight to Seattle’s main airport where an Eros team will be waiting to receive you. It’s going to be chilly there, so I’ll make sure you have something warm to wear under the transport suit."
Two days. Forty-eight hours to say goodbye to the only home I'd known for what felt like forever.
"Will you come with me?" I hated how small my voice sounded, how childlike.
Doctor Emerson hesitated, his expression conflicted. "I can't, Lucy. I have other patients here who need me.”
“I understand.” I nodded; because of course I knew that. He couldn’t shirk his responsibilities for one person. “Dr. Emerson, can you do something for me?”
The question flew out of my mouth, but it was something I’d been thinking about for a while. A weight I needed gone.
“If it’s something within my power, I will.” Doctor Emerson waited patiently, his expression shifting between emotions, as if unable to settle on one. The fine lines around his eyes deepened as I watched.
“Can you help me sign the trust fund over to my parents?” I asked, keeping my voice steady, not letting even a single syllable crack.
He held up a hand in surprise, palm facing me, body language clearing telling me to hit pause. “Lucy, you’re going to need that money in the future. You’ll need to—”
I cut him off. “I don’t want their money.”
Something about my tone must have convinced him I wouldn’t change my mind.
“All right, Lucy. I’ll help you do that.”
“Thank you,” I said quietly, feeling suddenly strange that I was cutting away this last tether to my parents.
Doctor Emerson said goodbye and left me with my thoughts.
That night, unable to sleep despite my physical exhaustion, I found comfort in making lists. Line after line of things I wanted to do when I was stronger. Places I wanted to see. Experiences I'd been denied that might now be possible. The list grew, spanning pages in my diary.
Swim in the ocean.
Feel grass between my toes.
Eat ice cream from a waffle cone that was sitting out on a shop’s counter without worrying about germs.
Go to a rock concert.
Kiss someone.
The process of listing desires felt dangerous, like tempting fate, yet it was also vital to my survival. The ever-lengthening list was a promise to myself that I would fight for every experience.
I fell asleep while still thinking up new ideas. The last two I wrote down set the stage for my dreams.
Get a hot pink mani-pedi.
Ride a scooter in Italy.
Possibilities.
Endless. Vivid. Gloriously frightening.