Page 2 of Client from Hell

Making the headlines in a blaze of glory would leave a mark unlike the obituary of a poor legal student with few prospects and a ridiculous amount of debt. Not even pixie dust could dull that edge, and Georgia had pitied me enough to offer me access to the highest grade possible that wouldn’t reduce me to a mindless slave, to make the last months of my life easier—assuming I could afford it.

I admired my inferno for a few minutes before I left to resume living the little life I had left.

Several months prior, I would have been eager and excited to go to school and learn about the inner workings of the legal system. Everyone still believed I had potential, which compounded my sense of defeat.

I knew better, and I’d run out of reasons to keep hiding the truth.

My diagnosis had snuffed my potential out, and I marched to the department head’s office so I could formally file my withdrawal from school. Why waste money on courses I wouldn’t be able to use even eight months from now?

I longed for a hit of the pixie dust I couldn’t afford, hoping my insurance company would get around to approving my request for a prescription. Then again, tomorrow, the doctors stuck with me wanted to start their last-ditch efforts to salvage my life, and they could dose me with whatever they wanted. The doctors wanted to fight my cancer, but they did it more for themselves than for me.

I’d met men like them before.

They hated to lose.

That they hated to lose a life helped me cope, but my life had become a trophy to them, one they’d battle for long into the night, despite my keen awareness my body failed a little more each day. My favorite of my physicians, surgeons, and specialists, who had a wife who’d beaten a cancer a lot like mine, recognized the truth of my situation.

She’d gotten lucky.

I wouldn’t.

Of them all, he’d been the one I trusted to make sure my last days were as comfortable as possible, and he’d pushed for my pixie dust prescription, which would be upgraded to the highest grade as soon as I crested the point of no return.

I appreciated that, assuming I could afford the bill. My financial situation wasn’t his problem, and I took care to dodge him becoming aware I hadn’t gotten a single dose of pixie dust yet.

There wasn’t a whole lot of point in having freedom or life if all I had to show for it was pain.

I lifted my hand to tap my knuckles on the polished wood, my chest tight from a mix of dread and the side effects of the medications trying to keep me alive.

Dr. Lakset, Esquire opened the door to his office before I had a chance to knock. “Come on in, Sandra. You’re as prompt as always. That’ll serve you well down the road. No matter what field of study you opt for, the clients hate when their representatives are late.”

I bit my lip so I wouldn’t sigh. “I need to withdraw for the semester, I’m afraid.”

“May I inquire as to why?”

“I have cancer, and they’re starting intensive treatments tomorrow, which have a less than five percent chance of working. I’ve been given no more than a year, but it could be as early as six months. They think closer to a year right now.”

The middle-aged man’s brow rose. “Well, that’s the one argument I swore I’d never question when I started working in academics. Is there anything we can do to help?”

I liked he didn’t offer me pity or sympathy; I had no use for either. Pity or sympathy wouldn’t pay my medical debt, nor would it buy me more time. “If it wasn’t for adding to the debt, I’d appreciate material to read, but I can’t attend classes starting tomorrow.”

“What sort of treatment?”

“Chemotherapy, and they don’t think it’ll work because it’s a pretty invasive cancer, and it’s resilient. It started in my bones, and it’s gotten just about everywhere. If the chemo doesn’t show immediate signs of working, they’re going to put me on pain management and let it run its course until I qualify for something a little more permanent.”

Some called it suicide, but others called it mercy. I figured by the time I got to the point not even pixie dust could help, I’d view my end as a mercy—if the Devil didn’t get to me first.

I smiled at the thought of the horned bastard’s house burning brightly in the night. Maybe he’d return to his many hells where he belonged instead of bothering humanity—and stomping around in the local courthouses where people like me might catch a glimpse of him in his full glory.

If it hadn’t been for him, I might not have noticed the shrouds around the angels, too. With my body knocking on death’s door, I supposed I breached the boundary separating life from eternal rest. It was either that or the rumors people kicked the bucket when they caught a glimpse of a heavens just weren’t true.

When I’d inquired with the CDC, they seemed to think it was true, as they’d given me a long list of incidents involving the immediate demise of those unfortunate enough to witness angels or the devil without their shrouds protecting them. Apparently, the CDC didn’t want mortals even realizing the shrouds existed, so I’d been asked to keep my mouth shut about it.

I’d agreed, as while I didn’t mind torching the Devil’s house for adding to the mess of my life, I drew lines at killing random people. If I decided to kill somebody, there’d be nothing random about it.

“You seem pretty at ease about your situation.”

I maintained my smile, a task I’d gotten better at with practice and time. “The chemo might work, and if it doesn’t, I’ve got some time to do a few things on my bucket list before I give it a good kick.”