Story code: ST-001448
Part 2: The Optics of Survival
The gray fog in Mateo’s eyes darkened at the edges, compressing his world into a terrifying tunnel of auditory input. He heard the metallic snap of a lighter, smelled the acrid burst of sulfur, and then the sweet, heavy smoke of a cigar cutting through the scent of truffles and seafood.
“The midterms are going to be a bloodbath if we don’t soften the messaging, Richard,” the woman said. Her voice was sharp, a staccato rhythm against the muffled jazz bleeding through the dining room doors.
“Let them bleed,” the man-Richard-replied. A thick plume of smoke drifted down, settling over Mateo’s paralyzed form. “We don’t legislate based on sob stories. If we cave and give them price caps on biologics, next they’ll want subsidized syringes, then free insulin pumps. It’s a bottomless pit of entitlement.”
Mateo’s jaw locked tight. He ordered his mouth to open, to scream, to beg for a single sip of whatever sugary mixer Richard was holding. His brain fired the desperate command, but the neural pathways were dead. His tongue felt like a dry, swollen sponge blocking his airway. The buzzing at the base of his skull shifted into a violent, rhythmic thumping as his heart worked frantically to pump thick, sugar-starved blood to his dying brain.
He dragged his right hand across the floor. The friction of his nitrile glove against the tile sounded like a shriek in his own ears, though it was barely a whisper in the vast kitchen. He needed to reach the stainless steel leg of the prep table. If he could just tap it, make a metallic ringing sound, they would have to look down. His fingers bumped against something soft. A discarded linen napkin. Useless.
“Is there a draft down here?” the woman asked. Her expensive heels clicked closer to Mateo’s hiding spot between the refrigerator and the counter. The ambient temperature of the kitchen was stiflingly warm, but Mateo’s failing body was radiating a deathly, clammy chill.
“Probably the service entrance,” Richard said. The ice in his glass clinked again. “These caterers leave everything propped open. Completely careless.”
The heels stopped abruptly. A sharp, sudden intake of breath. “Richard. Look.”
Mateo felt the shift in the air pressure as they leaned over the counter. He couldn’t see their faces, only blurred, looming silhouettes breaking up the harsh overhead light.
“Good God,” Richard muttered. The disgust in his voice was palpable, a heavy weight that settled directly onto Mateo’s chest. “Hey. Hey, you.”
A hard leather shoe nudged Mateo’s hip. It wasn’t a gentle, waking tap. It was a prod, the way one might test a dead animal on the shoulder of a highway.
Mateo forced a breath through his nose. He managed a low, wet groan. He tried to articulate the word *sugar*. He just needed them to hear the word *sugar*. It came out as a slurred, guttural hiss.
“He’s completely wasted,” the woman said, taking a quick step back. “Richard, look at him shaking. Is he having a drug reaction?”
“In my house. On my dime,” Richard snarled. The toe of the shoe dug harder into Mateo’s ribs, sharp enough to bruise. “Get up. I said get up, you degenerate.”
Mateo’s left arm twitched, an involuntary spasm that knocked over a small stack of plastic tasting spoons resting near the fridge’s exhaust vent. They clattered across the tile. The effort cost him the last dregs of his adrenaline. The gray fog thickened, turning pitch black in the center of his vision. He was crossing the threshold. He knew the timeline of his own disease intimately. Once the convulsions started, permanent brain damage was only minutes away.
“Julian!” Richard bellowed, his voice echoing off the marble and steel. “Julian, get in here right now!”
Seconds later, the frantic squeak of rubber-soled shoes signaled the arrival of the catering manager. Mateo heard Julian’s breathless panting.
“Mr. Sterling, I-oh my god. Mateo?” Julian’s voice cracked in pure panic.
“Is this the caliber of staff you bring into my home, Julian?” Richard’s tone was deadly quiet now, entirely stripped of its jovial, television-ready charm. “A junkie nodding off behind the appetizers while my guests, including three sitting senators, are in the next room?”
“Mr. Sterling, I swear, he’s never done this. He’s one of my best prep cooks. Mateo, hey!” Julian dropped to his knees. Mateo felt frantic hands grabbing his shoulders, shaking him violently. The motion sent a wave of agonizing nausea through his empty stomach.
*Stop*, Mateo screamed in his mind. *Check my apron pocket. The empty vial. Check my wrist.* But his medical alert bracelet had broken a month ago, and he hadn’t been able to afford the twenty dollars to replace it.
“He’s burning up, and he’s sweating right through his uniform,” Julian babbled, his hands patting Mateo’s cheeks in a useless rhythm. “I think he’s overdosing.”
“I don’t care what he’s doing,” Richard said. “I am not having paramedics rushing through my front doors, interrupting the most important fundraiser of the quarter, because one of your hires couldn’t wait until after his shift to shoot up.”
“I’ll call 911 immediately,” Julian said, his voice trembling. “We can bring them through the service gate…”
“You will do no such thing,” Richard snapped. “You call an ambulance, the police come with it. The press monitors the scanners. ‘Overdose at Sterling Estate.’ That’s the headline tomorrow. Do you understand what that does to my optics while I’m fighting a healthcare bill?”
“But he looks like he’s dying!”
“He is trespassing and under the influence,” Richard corrected, his voice as cold and hard as the marble countertops. “You are going to drag him out the back loading dock. You dump him in your van, drive him three blocks down the hill to the public street, and you call 911 from there. And if my name comes up, your catering company is finished.”
Mateo felt Julian’s hands freeze on his shoulders. The hesitation was thick and suffocating. Mateo’s right hand scraped blindly across the floor, desperately searching for anything. His numb fingers found the thick rubber of Julian’s shoe. He gripped it with the last ounce of his strength, a pathetic, trembling anchor to the living world.
*Please*, Mateo thought.
“Julian,” Richard warned. “Three blocks down. Now.”
Julian’s hands moved from Mateo’s cheeks to his armpits. “I’m sorry,” Julian whispered, so quietly that only Mateo could hear it over the roaring in his ears. “I can’t lose this business.”
Julian jerked backward, hauling Mateo’s dead weight across the floor. The friction burned through the thin fabric of Mateo’s shirt. His grip on Julian’s shoe broke. As he was dragged toward the freezing alleyway, further from the kitchen pantry that held his salvation, Mateo’s failing vision caught one last blurry image: the lobbyist turning away, lifting his glass to take a long, slow sip of a sugary mixed drink.