The Borrowed Time

***Bryony Hinsley POV***

"The merger document?" I ask, my voice sounding far steadier than I feel as I peer at his bright computer screen.

He nods once, a curt, silent jerk of his chin.

I hit print, the click of the mouse echoing far too loud in the quiet room. Turning my back to him, I walk out to the printer in the hallway. The machine spits out the pages, the rhythmic sound doing nothing to calm the frantic beating of my heart. I gather the thick stack of paper, align the edges with a sharp tap against the plastic counter, and press the stapler down into the corner.

When I turn around to hand him the file, Dorian is right there. He hasn't moved. He just stands there watching me. His intense gaze pins me in place, making my skin prickle with an uncomfortable, suffocating heat. It feels heavy, almost predatory, but I physically can't look away. My lungs freeze in my chest.

Then, without a single word, he takes the document from my trembling fingers, turns on his heel, and walks away.

The moment his broad back disappears down the corridor, I suck in a massive breath of air. I hadn't even realized I was holding it. My hands grip the edge of the printer counter until my knuckles turn white. I force my legs to move, making my way back to my desk.

Dorian has been acting weird this past week. I have caught him staring at me more times than I can count. It isn't just a passing glance, either; it is a deep, calculated assessment that makes the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention.

And it isn't just him. Darius has been wound just as tight. They’ve both been on edge lately. Just the other day, I caught the muffled, aggressive tones of them arguing over something behind closed doors. I tried to tune it out as best I could—their personal dynamic and whatever strange tension they share is none of my business—but it left a heavy, awkward atmosphere lingering over the entire office floor.

The rest of the day drags by in a tense blur. Darius remains holed up in his office, radiating a dark mood that I don't dare interrupt. The only time I interact with him is when I transfer urgent calls to his private phone line, my voice clipped and professional.

Before I know it, the digital clock on my desktop flashes 5:30 PM. Mr. Cross and Mr. Vance left exactly at five, their departure bringing a wave of silence to the executive suite. I finish shutting down my computer, the screen fading to black. I switch off the overhead lights, plunging the pristine office into shadows, and head down to the employee carpark.

Down in the concrete lot, the evening chill bites at my skin. I unlock my old, beat-up sedan and quickly grab my phone charger and a pile of warm clothes from the backseat, shoving everything into my oversized handbag.

I have to manage my time perfectly. Arthur, the building's maintenance guy, works a few hours in the morning and comes back at night to empty the trash bins and scrub the lobby floors. More importantly, he locks the heavy iron gates to the carpark right at 9:00 PM. That strict curfew gives me a solid window to visit my mother before heading back to sleep in my front seat.

Walking through the empty parking lot, I come out on the ground floor level, right on the park side. I cut through the damp grass of the park, keeping my head down against the wind. Up ahead, glowing against the darkening sky, is the massive blue neon sign sitting atop the building across from Cross and Vance Industries.

Crestview Hospital.

Every single day, I make this exact trek to check on her. My feet know the path blindly by now. I push through the heavy glass sliding doors, the blast of artificial heat washing over my chilled skin. Making my way up to the second floor, I head straight for the intensive care wards.

Room eighteen, bed five.

My mother has been trapped in this sterile purgatory for just over three months. I step into the quiet, dimly lit room and take my usual seat in the hard, uncomfortable blue plastic chair beside her bed. I hate hospitals. I hate the blinding fluorescent lights, the muffled squeak of rubber soles on linoleum, and the hushed whispers of doctors. They always smell of harsh hand sanitizer, but this particular ward reeks of death.

My mother doesn’t have some debilitating chronic illness. She didn't slowly succumb to a disease. My mother, Corinne Hinsley, is in a coma.

She was driving home from her shift at a local bar late one night. A drunk driver blew through a red light and smashed directly into her driver’s side door. The police told me her car was a total write-off, twisted metal and shattered glass. They had to use the jaws of life just to cut her from the vehicle. She slipped into a coma right there on the asphalt and hasn't opened her eyes since. The doctors sat me down in a windowless room and told me she was brain-dead. The only thing keeping her chest rising and falling, the only thing keeping her alive, are the loud machines she is hooked up to.

The hospital initially said they would keep her on life support, hoping to see some change even though it would take a miracle. When that miracle never came, they wanted to turn off the machines. I fought them. I appealed their decision to the Bioethics Review Council, fighting tooth and nail to keep her breathing. I have managed to push it to nearly four months now, still waiting to hear back from the council. I know it is a battle I will lose. But for now, it has brought me a little more time with her.

It is only a matter of time before they pull the plug on her and tell me I have to say goodbye.

This ticking clock is the exact reason I am currently living out of my car. Mum’s medical bills are astronomical, a mountain of debt I will never climb out of. Even when the time comes to switch her off, I will have to live in my car for at least another two years just to finish paying it off. My basic employee medical insurance only covers a dependent child or a spouse. My mother didn’t have medical insurance. She worked cash in hand, struggling her whole life just to keep a job for long.

I know most people think it is wishful thinking to hope she wakes up, but I just can’t give up on her. She taught me to walk, to talk, to use a spoon. She taught me how to ride a bike without training wheels. She has been by my side from the absolute start. She was my first friend. In fact, she is my only friend. She raised me as a single mum from the time I was born. My father walked out the second he found out she was expecting. I never met the man, and quite frankly, I don't care to meet him.

I lost our house after three weeks of not being able to pay the mortgage. It turned out we were already months behind when the accident happened, and my mother was keeping the financial ruin from me to protect me. The bank gave me an ultimatum. I had to choose: keep Mum alive, or keep the house.

I chose her. I know she would have done the exact same thing for me. I know I am delaying the inevitable, but how do you kill your mum? How do you kill the one person who spent your entire life loving and supporting you? When the time comes, I need to know I have tried everything, or I know I won’t be able to live with the guilt.

Looking down at my mother, she looks like she is just sleeping, besides the thick plastic tube hanging out of her mouth that forces her to breathe, keeping her alive. She has numerous tubes hanging out of her skinny, bruised arms.

My mother used to be a strong, lively, and happy woman. She always looked younger than her age. With her bright blonde hair that fell just below her shoulder blades, she had excellent, flawless skin, no wrinkles, pink full lips, and a natural tan complexion. She looked great for a woman who was forty-five years old.

Now, her skin is a sickly, ashen grey. Her hair is oily and flat against the pillow. She has lost all her weight and muscle mass and is now literal skin and bone, wasting away in this hospital bed.

Sitting in the blue chair, I scoot closer to the metal railing of the bed and gently grab her frail hand.

“Hey Mumma, I miss you,” I whisper, my voice cracking in the quiet room.

I reach up and brush her hair off her forehead where it is sticking to her pale skin. Listening to the beep of her heart monitor, I hear it tracing regularly, alongside the mechanical hiss of the ventilator forcing air into her lungs. It is the same agonizing soundtrack every single day. I used to come every day and sit with her for hours, telling her about my day or reading to her from worn paperbacks. But after a couple of months, I just come and tell her I love her. I have run out of things to say.

I miss her voice. I miss her telling me everything was going to be okay. I miss the way she made survival look easy. Corinne Hinsley may not have been a perfect mother to the outside world, but she was perfect to me. Yeah, she had a drinking problem she battled, but other than that, I know she did the best she could with the hand she was dealt.

There was never a lack of love. No matter how bad I fucked up, she was always there to help me pick up the shattered pieces and rebuild.

Now I look at her sunken cheeks, and I think of all the things she will miss. All the milestones and memories she won’t be a part of stack up in my throat, choking me.

After sitting with her for a while, holding her cold hand, I force myself to stand up. I grab my oversized bag and quickly duck into the ward's small bathroom. The night nurse, Tessa, is on shift tonight and always lets me shower here. It is the only time I get to wash my body with warm water. It isn't hot, just lukewarm bath water as the hospital showers are temperature regulated. Still, I’m not complaining. Lukewarm is a million times better than freezing cold.

The other patients in this room need round-the-clock assistance and are bedridden like my mother, so I don’t really have to worry about anyone barging in, but I always lock the door just in case a cleaner or a random doctor decides to stop in.

Showering quickly, I aggressively wash my hair and my body, making sure to scrub extra good while I have the luxury of running warm water. The cheap soap washes the stress of the corporate office away. When I’m done, I turn off the tap and quickly get out, shivering as the cool air hits my skin. I dry myself with a scratchy towel and get into my fleece track pants so I don’t have to try and change in the cramped backseat of my car later. I slide my bare feet into thick socks before putting on a pair of comfortable flats.

I jam my damp towel and work clothes back into my heavy handbag before unlocking the door and making my way back to my mother’s side.

Sitting on the small plastic rolling table next to my charging phone are some cheese and tomato club sandwiches wrapped in clear cellophane.

My stomach instantly rumbles loudly at the sight. Tessa must have slipped in while I was in the shower. The young nurse knows my dire situation. She knows I haven’t got a single cent left over after I pay the hospital repayments, leaving nothing for food. So, every shift she works, I always find sandwiches or any leftover food from the cafeteria waiting for me on this table.