The Severance

My parents, both Hollywood legends, were terrified I’d try to ride their coattails. They made me sign an agreement: my career was mine, but their name, their fame, was off-limits.
So I clawed my way up from the bottom. During a high-wire stunt for a gritty indie film, a cable snapped. I fell. The world went black.
I was hanging on by a thread, my voice a raw, trembling whisper as I begged my agent to get my parents to the hospital, to sign the surgical consent forms.
But they ignored my plea. Their words, cold and sharp over the phone, were a final twist of the knife.
“Don’t you dare pull a stunt like this to try and force our hand. You’ve been a manipulative child from the day you were born. Did you think we wouldn't see right through you?”
When I clawed my way back from death’s door, the first thing I saw was a post from my brother. A video from his wrap party. He was the center of a cheering crowd, my parents beaming beside him, proudly introducing him to the world as their brilliant son.
The caption read: A star on the screen, but always Mom and Dad’s little prince.
This time, there was no hysteria. No screaming into a pillow.
Instead, I had a declaration of familial severance drawn up. And then, I walked away.

1
The piercing shriek of the heart monitor was a constant scream in the sterile white room. My agent Monica’s sobs were a muffled counterpoint, swallowed by the urgent, clipped voices of doctors and nurses.
“We can’t wait any longer. His condition is critical, we need to operate now. Get his family on the phone!”
Monica’s choked voice was a distant wave. “I can’t… they’re not picking up.”
A nurse’s voice, sharp with urgency. “Use my phone. There’s no more time to waste.”
Monica mumbled her thanks, her hands fumbling as she took the phone.
Unlike all the other times, the call connected almost instantly.
“Yeah, what is it?” The voice was my father’s, irritated and rough.
A knot tightened in my chest, a sour, acid-like pain that cut through the physical agony.
Monica’s voice was a frantic rush. “Hello, this is Jack’s agent. Am I speaking to his father?”
A sharp sigh on the other end. Impatience dripped from every word. “No. Wrong number.”
The pain in my chest bloomed, a dark flower of agony so intense it sharpened my fading consciousness.
Monica wouldn’t give up. “But… it can’t be. Your contact in his phone is labeled ‘Dad.’”
She took a breath, trying to steady herself. “Please, don’t misunderstand. Jack was in an accident on set this afternoon. He needs emergency surgery. We need you to come to the hospital and sign the consent forms.”
She held the phone to my lips.
I fought against the blinding pain radiating from my shattered tailbone, my blood-smeared hand shaking as I gripped the phone.
“Dad…”
My voice was a broken thing. “It’s Jack. It hurts… it hurts so much. Can you… can you and Mom please come?”
I clung to that phone like it was the last handhold on a cliff face.
But the voice on the other end was a blade of ice, sending me plummeting into the abyss.
“Don’t you dare pull a stunt like this to try and force our hand. You’ve been a manipulative child from the day you were born. Did you think we wouldn't see right through you?”
Before I could gasp out another word, the line went dead.
My heart felt like it was being methodically sliced apart by a razor, a pain so profound it almost eclipsed the fire in my bones. I could feel the pity in the eyes of the people around me.
The lead surgeon’s face was grim. “That’s it. No more time. Sarah, go get emergency authorization from the hospital director. Now!”
Through a disorienting haze, I was wheeled into the operating room.
When I opened my eyes again, it was to the familiar, soulless white of a hospital ceiling.
“Jack! You’re awake!”
Monica, seeing my eyes flutter open, scrambled to press the call button by the bed.
I managed a weak, crooked smile, trying to reassure her. She gripped my hand, her face streaked with tears, asking me again and again if it hurt. I wanted to tell her to stop crying, but my throat was a desert, too raw to make a sound.
A nurse rushed in, her face flooding with relief when she saw me. “You’ve cheated death, kid. From here on out, it’s all uphill.”
As the nurse went over instructions with Monica, I reached for my phone. A few messages from work colleagues.
And, just as I expected, nothing from my parents. Not a single text. Not a missed call.
But there on my social media feed was a new post from my brother, Julian. A flood of congratulatory comments from my parents glowed beneath it. He had wrapped his first leading role in a blockbuster last night. They had driven to the set, presented him with a new sports car, and popped champagne. He was their star, their moon, their entire universe.
After a sip of water soothed my throat, I urged Monica to go home. “You’ve been here for days, Monica. Go. Get some rest.”
She carefully spooned some lukewarm glucose water to my lips. “Don’t you worry about me. You’re the one who matters right now. What are you going to do if I’m not here?”
I forced a smile. Even my agent cared more about me than my own blood. On the day I nearly died, my parents had been celebrating their other child.
A month later, I was discharged. I turned down Monica’s offer to drive me home, stopping instead at a print shop to pick up a document I’d had prepared.
The moment I stepped through the front door of the mansion, something whistled past my ear. A split second later, the sound of glass exploding against the wall behind me.
A drop of blood trickled down my cheek. I wiped it away, my gaze finding my family in the living room.
Mom and Julian were browsing a catalog of a new fall fashion line.
Dad stood by the coffee table, his face a mask of fury. “So, you finally remembered you have a home?”
I ignored his rage. “A home? You mean this place?”
A month in the hospital. Besides Monica and the nurses, no one had visited. They hadn’t even sent a single text message. In this sprawling, opulent villa, if there was any place I could truly call my own, it was the stuffy, airless storage room in the attic they let me use.
Julian, as if only just noticing my presence, widened his eyes, his voice dripping with faux concern. “Jack! How can you talk to Dad like that?”
He turned on his actor’s charm, his face a canvas of manufactured guilt. “Where have you been? Do you have any idea how worried we all were?” He paused, his gaze softening into a performance of contrition. “Was it because Mom and Dad were at my wrap party? Because they hung up on you? Is that why you’re angry?”
Julian was always the favorite, everywhere he went. The recent illness had given his handsome face a pale, fragile quality that only made him seem more innocent.
Mom clutched Julian’s hand protectively, her eyes flashing with anger as she glared at me. “When are you going to grow up and be more like your brother? Why must you always make us worry?” Her voice rose. “Julian has been so sick, and you have the nerve to be jealous? Why couldn’t it have been you who was sick? My sweet, considerate Julian…”
A bitter, ironic smile touched my lips. “Worried?” I asked. “Is that what you call not sending a single message for a month? Or is it lounging on the sofa picking out new clothes while your other son has been missing for weeks?”
SMACK.
The crisp sound of the slap echoed through the vast living room. The hired help and the fashion consultant froze.
My father was incandescent with rage. “You ungrateful brat! I never should have been soft on you, never should have let you into this industry. Look at what you’ve become!”
I cupped my stinging cheek, a humorless laugh escaping my lips.
Soft on me?
Forcing me to sign a non-disclosure agreement about our relationship before I could even audition for a community theater play—that was being soft? Then what do you call handing Julian multi-million dollar endorsement deals and lead roles in major films on a silver platter? Philanthropists of the year?
I knew my birth was an afterthought, a means to an end for Julian. He had leukemia as a child; I was the miracle bone marrow match. My entire existence was an insurance policy.
But for twenty years, I’d endured the needles, the painful extractions, the sterile hospital rooms. Even if they felt no love, couldn’t they spare a little gratitude for the service I’d rendered?
Apparently not.
I was his personal bone marrow bank. When they needed me: “Jack, honey, this is your brother. You exist because of him. You have to save him.”

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