His Regret After Live Streaming My Detox

Three years with terminal bone cancer.
The ex I'd abandonednow a detectivestormed into my apartment as I reached for morphine just to stay upright.
He watched, coldly sneering, as I shook on the floor. Seven years, and you're a junkie now? Where's that gold-digger pride?
Trembling, I pointed. Please the medicine.
Vincent laughed, snatched the bottle, and flushed it all. "Want it? Go to rehab."
Looming over me, he added, "Seems when you ran off, your bones rotted too."
Agony ripped through me; I curled up, shaking. "Am I going to die?"
He just filmed my suffering. "For the anti-drug campaign," he said.
1
Get the camera rolling, Vincent barked at his subordinate.
Zoom in. Close-up on her face. I dont want to miss a single, pathetic detail. This will be the most powerful lesson in our new PSA.
The flashbulb went off, blinding me as the lens focused on my sweat-drenched face.
The pain was a living thing inside my skeleton, a million ants with fiery teeth gnawing at the marrow of my bones. It was an itch I couldn't scratch, a fire I couldn't put out. I tried to claw at my own limbs, but my nails only scraped against the cold linoleum, a sound like screeching metal.
Vincent crouched down, the tip of his black baton forcing my chin up. His face was a mask of disgust.
Look at the state of you. Even the stray dogs in the alley have more dignity.
My vision blurred. All I could see was the sharp line of his jaw, a line I once loved to trace with my fingertips.
Meds I squeezed the word from my throat, a dry, desperate whisper, and reached for the hem of his pants.
Just then, a figure in a white coat stepped into the room.
It was Sophia.
The squads medic. Vincents trusted right hand. And once upon a time, my best friend.
Her eyes swept over me, lingering for a moment on the faint, scarred lump just below my collarbonemy chemo port.
Oh my god, Vincent, look at her arm, Sophia gasped, her voice a perfect symphony of feigned shock. Classic track marks from long-term IV drug use. Theyve formed a venous cord. Can you imagine the kind of addiction it takes to do this to yourself?
I opened my mouth, wanting to scream that it wasnt a track mark, that it was a port for my treatment. But my throat was a desert, scorched raw by pain. All that came out was a dry, rattling hiss.
Hearing Sophias expert diagnosis, the last flicker of complicated emotion in Vincents eyes vanished, replaced by pure, undiluted loathing.
He kicked my hand away from his pants with a vicious snarl.
Dont touch me!
The force of the blow sent me rolling into the corner. My bones hit the wall with a dull, heavy thud, and a new, blinding wave of pain exploded through my body.
Make the announcement, Vincents voice echoed in the small room, cold and final. The suspect, Clara Hayes, will be put under a twenty-four-hour mandatory detox live stream.
Let everyone see what drugs do. Let them watch how a once-beautiful woman can become this this thing. Neither human nor ghost.
Captain, thats thats not exactly by the book, a younger officer stammered.
Vincent whipped his head around, his eyes bloodshot, his voice a low, furious growl. For a dealer who treats human life like a joke, you dont go by the book. You make an example. I want every potential user out there to see this. This is their future. If theres any fallout, Ill take the heat. All of it.
2
As the pain threatened to drag me into unconsciousness, Vincents search continued. He was nothing if not thorough, tearing the place apart, determined to uncover every last piece of my criminal enterprise.
Finally, he kicked the bed frame aside and dragged a dusty iron box out from underneath.
My heart seized in my chest.
No!
Not that. Anything but that!
The things in that box were more precious to me than my own life.
Dont touch it!
I dont know where the strength came from, but I scrambled across the floor toward him, crawling on my hands and knees.
My frantic desperation seemed to amuse him. The sneer on his face deepened. He easily kicked me aside again and pried open the boxs latch.
Inside was a diary, its pages worn and curled from countless readings, and a single police badge, carefully wrapped in a piece of red silk.
Vincent picked up the diary and flipped through a few pages.
My handwriting chronicled every chemo session, every spike in pain, every adjustment in my medication dosage.
March 7th. Sunny. OxyContin, 80mg. Pain.
March 9th. Cloudy. Morphine shot. Pain so bad I wanted to die. But I think I saw Vincent on the street today. Hes still so handsome.
March 15th. Raining. They upped the dose again. Feels like my bones are going to snap.
He laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. He held the journal up for the camera.
And what do we have here? An addicts diary! he announced, his voice dripping with theatrical scorn. He read the line about seeing him aloud, his tone mocking and cruel.
Saw Vincent today. Hallucinating from the drugs, were you? Still thinking about me? God, Clara, you make me sick.
With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the diary into the trash can in the corner.
Then, he picked up the silk-wrapped badge.
It was my fathers. My father, who had been his mentor on the force.
The moment he saw it, Vincents eyes turned to ice.
You dont deserve to have this.
He walked over to me, his presence a suffocating weight.
A heros daughter, and you end up as scum. What would your dead father think of you now?
I shook my head frantically, tears and sweat streaming down my face. No its not
He wasnt listening. He pulled a lighter from his pocket.
Click.
A blue flame shot up.
And right in front of my eyes, he set my diary on fire.
He slammed his foot down on the hand I stretched out to save it, grinding his heel into my knuckles. I heard a sickening crunch and screamed as the bones fractured.
Watch, he commanded, forcing me to look as the flames licked at the pages, turning my final testament to ashes.
Why keep this? So people can know what a pathetic waste you were after youre gone? Or so everyone knows that I, Vincent Vance, once had a junkie for a girlfriend?
The fire consumed the paper, but it felt like it was burning through my marrow.
From the sidelines, Sophia added her own fuel. You did the right thing, Vincent. Something like that is just pollution. Better to burn it and be done.
I lay on the floor, pinned beneath his boot, unable to move. I stopped struggling. I stopped crying.
I just watched the fire until the last page turned to black soot.
That diary was the last piece of proof I had in this world. The only thing that could clear my name.
And now, it was gone.
3
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.
Thats 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! Shes 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.
Claras a good girl! Shes not a criminal! Shes 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.
Vincents 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, dont 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. Were removing him for his own safety.
Her words reignited the crowds fury, now directed at my only defender.
Senile old fool! Getting tricked by a junkie!
Hes probably her accomplice! Theyre 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 dont want to drag that old man down with you, if you dont want him charged with aiding and abetting a felon, you will do exactly as youre 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.
4
They took me to the citys central plaza.
Overnight, a massive, transparent glass box had been erected there. A cage for displaying a monster.
And I was the monster.
I was shoved inside, and a ring of powerful spotlights flared to life, so bright they hurt my eyes.
Outside the glass, a huge crowd had gathered, their faces a mixture of morbid curiosity, contempt, and excitement. A forest of phones and cameras was pointed at me, broadcasting my agony twenty-four hours a day.
Without the morphine to dull the pain, the cancer was finally unleashed. It exploded through my body with a terrifying, exponential force.
Pain.
So much pain I couldnt breathe.
So much pain I thought I could hear the sound of my own bones cracking, splinter by splinter.
I began to writhe on the floor, thrashing, curling into a ball, trying anything to escape the inhuman torment. I slammed my head against the hard glass walls, the dull thuds echoing in my cage. I just wanted to pass out. I just wanted to die.
The crowd outside roared with a mix of shock and laughter.
Look! Look! Shes going into withdrawal!
Tsk, tsk. Serves her right. What a pathetic display.
Vincent stood just outside the box, a microphone in his hand.
Look closely, everyone, he announced, his amplified voice booming across the plaza. This is what drugs do to a human being. Once youre hooked, you lose all your dignity. You become nothing more than an animal, begging for its next fix. This is the price of throwing your life away.
His words pierced through my pain-fogged mind.
My consciousness began to fray. I started to hallucinate.
The Vincent outside the glass was no longer a cold-hearted detective. He was the Vincent from seven years ago, wearing a white shirt, smiling at me under a warm sun, holding out his hand.
Clara, dont be afraid. Im here to take you home.
Vincent I sobbed, reaching for the phantom. I used the last of my strength to call his name.
Vincent save me
My desperate plea was just another part of the show for the audience.
Sophia immediately grabbed the microphone. As you can see, she explained with a tone of clinical pity, the suspect is now experiencing severe hallucinations. This is a clear sign that the drugs have completely destroyed her mind.
The live stream chat exploded with mockery and abuse.
[This chick is a lost cause.]
The beautiful illusion shattered, and the endless ocean of pain swallowed me once more.
Finally, I couldnt take it anymore. The world went black.
A bucket of ice-cold water shocked me back to consciousness. The public execution continued.
I dont know how much time passed. At the peak of another wave of agony, my body betrayed me completely.
A warm liquid spread from my lower abdomen, soaking through my pants.
I had lost control of my bladder.
In front of the entire country.
In that moment, the pain, the shame, the rageit all vanished. All that was left was a profound, hollow numbness.
My last shred of dignity had just been ground into dust.
As my vision tunneled, I felt the glass door being thrown open. Someone stormed in and grabbed me by the collar. It was Vincent, his face contorted in rage.
Clara! Get up! Stop playing dead for sympathy!
He was so furious, he didnt know his own strength. He shook me hard.
A sickening snap echoed in the small space.
It was my collarbone. Already eaten away by cancer, it had broken under his grip.

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