Chapter Five

ZENDAYA 

(March 14 - Orlando)

I break into a run the moment I sign off work, hoping I'm not too late. My mother's prescription has run out, and I need to renew it today. If she misses her prescription, she might develop asthmatic complications, the doctor warned me.

As I sprint across the lane toward the pharmacy where she's registered, my hair whips behind me. I arrive just as the doorman is about to flip the door sign from "open" to "closed." 

I barge in through the doors, panting. The doorman, Jimmy, assesses me through the glass perched on the bridge of his nose, his mouth turned down in disapproval.

I have a reputation for always renewing my prescription late, and the staff is now used to my frantic monthly arrivals.

 Jimmy, waves me inside, turning the sign to "closed." I murmur my appreciation, moving toward the counter to have my order processed.

Rosa, the pharmacist, a middle-aged green-eyed blonde woman wearing a lab coat over a floral print dress, shakes her head as she sees me. "You're a perpetual latecomer, aren't you? Always making me work overtime," she says with a tut.

"I'm sorry," I wheeze, handing over the payment slip. 

Rosa confirms the details and types in my order with swift keystrokes. I hold the edge of the counter, struggling to catch my breath. After a long day of work, I'm exhausted, and the stress of rushing to the pharmacy has left me panting.

Rosa notices my distress and asks, "Are you okay?" 

Although I try to hold in my breathing, it's clear I'm panting, close to hyperventilating. I nod, swallowing the acrid taste on my tongue. "I will be," I assure her, barely hearing my own words.

Rosa looks unconvinced but offers me an Ambu bag. 

I decline with a dismissive wave. "Thanks," I say. 

Rosa shrugs, retrieves my order from the shelves, and hands me the bag containing the medication. 

"Thank you," I say, taking the bag.

"The next time you're late, I'll charge you for my overtime," Rosa warns, her expression stern but a subtle smile on her lips.

 I smile back, thank her again, and bid her farewell before leaving the pharmacy. Jimmy tips his hat in response as I exit.

I step out onto the streets, heaving a sigh of relief. 

The sun's glow is dimming across the horizon, casting a dusky orange hue across the sky. Despite the late hour, the streets bustle with activity. 

It's only quiet around here during the pre-dawn hours, but even then, the locals are already up and moving. This neighborhood is home to numerous establishments and industries, so it's rarely quiet.

I decide to walk home to save money for another day. My workplace is within walking distance of my house – a trekable distance that, while exhausting for the average person, is bearable for someone of my financial standing.

 Poverty has a way of making things bearable. However, when I'm on the brink of exhaustion, I'm always reminded of my mom's circumstances, and I draw back. I remind myself not to make this walk a habit, considering its repercussions. I must work hard to survive in this harsh reality.

As I walk, I think about my mom's circumstances, and it gives me the strength to carry on. My mom, a single mom, worked tirelessly to support me. I've never known my father, but my mom's determination and love have always been enough for me. 

She worked as a factory worker after losing her job as a nurse due to an incident. The factory work was hazardous to her health, but she persisted for our survival. If only I had known about the harsh conditions sooner, I would have started working part-time to support her and urged her to quit.

Unfortunately, years of inhaling toxic fumes and dust at the factory took a toll on her health, and she developed chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD). She collapsed at work one day, and her condition rapidly deteriorated. 

I've since graduated from the school she worked so hard to get me through, but I'm still struggling to find employment to make up for her sacrifices. I try to sell my art, write applications, and enter competitions, but so far, nothing has yielded any results.

Often, I feel frustrated enough to want to give up, but my dreams keep me going. I won't stop striving until I achieve my goals and make a name for myself. Every success story has its trying moments and epic failures. This is my trying moment, but I will survive it and emerge triumphant.

My phone vibrates in my hand, and I turn it over, glancing at the screen. It's Mason, my advisor and constant source of motivation.

 I'm holding the bag containing my mom's supplies in one hand and my phone in the other, with my duffel bag slung across my right shoulder. I answer Mason's call, raising the phone to my ear.

 "Hey, how are you doing?" he asks.

 "I'm good," I respond.

The sound of engines and cars rumbles in the air as I walk along the pedestrian walkway.

 "Yourself? How's your day going?" I ask. 

"Fine," Mason replies. "Where are you? It's noisy around there." He grunts as another heavy sound echoes through the air.

 Drivers here are impatient, and there are more reckless drivers than considerate road users in this part of Florida.

I raise my free hand to my ear to block out the disturbing sound, and the medicine bag dangles from my shoulder. 

"I'm on the street, on my way home," I reply. 

"In a car or walking?" Mason asks. 

I prevaricate, "I'm on my way home." I can almost see Mason narrowing his gaze in suspicion. It's as though he's my predestined elder brother. Although we're the same age, he acts overprotectively and looks out for me.

I appreciate his concerns, but I feel like I'm in a different reality. 

Mason reminds me, "Don't forget next week's occasion."

 I blink in confusion, scanning my memory for what next week might be about.

 "I knew you would have forgotten," Mason says with a hint of exasperation. "My birthday!"

"Ah!" I exclaim, remembering. Mason and I are from different worlds. He has the luxury of celebrating birthdays, with an accomplished family and a set path after college. He works as a data analyst in a company owned by a family friend.

We met at the hospital where my mom worked as a nurse, discovered we attended the same high school, and became close friends. 

Mason will be turning 26 this Saturday, three days from now, and a couple of months before my own birthday.

 "You dare not miss it," he warns, his tone playful but firm.

 "I will try not to," I assure him.

 Mason and I chat briefly before ending the call. I'm almost home now, I think silently, offering a silent apology to my throbbing legs and worn-out body.

With thoughts of taking a refreshing shower and relaxing briefly before doing my chores, I head home. 

However, my path is intercepted by a black luxury car that pulls up abruptly in front of me, seemingly out of nowhere.

 I jerk back instinctively, having had no idea it was going to swerve off the road toward me.

Two built men in black suits and dark glasses get out of the car, their eyes fixed on me. I look around, wary and confused.

 My heart races when I notice that the street is quiet around here. Before I can speak, the man on my side lunges at me, and I'm dragged into the car. I try to raise an alarm, but a firm grip over my face silences me.

The cloth covering my face must have been laced with something, as I feel my consciousness slipping away. My body sags against the man's frame, and my belongings hit the ground.

 I vaguely register being dragged into the car and driven away. Darkness envelops me despite my struggle to fight against it, my thoughts consumed by my mom. 

"Mom," I cry silently, finally losing the fight and succumbing to darkness.