Chapter 3His Regret After Live Streaming My Detox

Dawn was breaking when two officers hauled me out of the apartment.

Twenty-four hours without morphine had left me without the strength to even stand. The twin tortures of cancer and withdrawal were burning through what was left of my sanity.

Outside, a mob was waiting. A sea of reporters and gawkers, their cameras and phones creating a forest of flashing lights, blocking the narrow hallway completely.

“That’s her! The junkie!”

“She looks so normal. How can someone be so rotten on the inside?”

Vincent stood at the front of the pack, his uniform crisp and immaculate, his face a grim mask for the cameras.

“This,” he announced, his voice booming with authority, “is Clara Hayes, apprehended yesterday. A textbook example of how greed and vanity can lead a person into the abyss of addiction.”

His words were a signal. Someone in the crowd threw a rotten cabbage, and it hit me squarely in the face. Then came more vegetables, rotten eggs, people spitting.

In the chaos, someone yanked the wig from my head, the wig I wore to hide the hair loss from my chemo. My bald, pale scalp was exposed to the world.

“Freak! She’s a monster!”

The jeers and insults washed over me like a tidal wave. I just stood there, numb, as filth dripped from my hair into my collar.

Suddenly, an old, furious voice cut through the noise.

“What are you doing?! Stop it! Leave her alone!”

It was Mr. Henderson, my landlord.

He brandished a broom like a sword, pushing his way through the crowd to stand in front of me.

“Clara’s a good girl! She’s not a criminal! She’s sick, you bastards!”

With his frail body, he shielded me from the garbage still flying through the air.

I saw egg yolk and wilted lettuce clinging to his white hair, and my heart felt like it was being squeezed by an iron fist. It hurt more than the cancer.

“Mr. Henderson…” I whispered.

Vincent’s brow furrowed. He gave a subtle nod to his men.

“Get that old man out of here.”

Officers moved in, grabbing Mr. Henderson and dragging him away. Sophia, ever the opportunist, stepped up to the nearest camera.

“Please, everyone, don’t be deceived,” she said, her voice full of false concern. “Addicts are often masters of manipulation, playing the victim to win the sympathy of kind-hearted people like this gentleman. We’re removing him for his own safety.”

Her words reignited the crowd’s fury, now directed at my only defender.

“Senile old fool! Getting tricked by a junkie!”

“He’s probably her accomplice! They’re all trash!”

They shoved Mr. Henderson roughly. He stumbled, fell, and cracked his head on the pavement. Blood bloomed on his forehead.

“Mr. Henderson!” I screamed, my voice raw with anguish.

Vincent moved close, his voice a venomous whisper meant only for me.

“You see that, Clara? If you don’t want to drag that old man down with you, if you don’t want him charged with aiding and abetting a felon, you will do exactly as you’re told.”

My body went rigid.

He was using the only person in the world who cared about me as leverage.

What could I do?

I lowered my head, surrendering completely, and let the filth rain down on me.

In front of a thousand cameras, I stood like a condemned prisoner, trembling and broken, all hope extinguished.