One Last Wish Before Death Novel by WriterLola _ Novel



One Last Wish Before Death Novel by WriterLola _ Novel

One Last Wish Before Death Chapter 01

Charlotte's POV
In the last week of my life, I was thrown out by my parents and elder brother for breaking my foster sister's ornament.
I quit my job, sold my apartment, and wrote my will, putting everything in order for my suicide.
Now, there was only one wish left unfulfilled.
Fortunately, I still had seven days.
After I was gone, however, the family who had always despised me completely fell apart.
***
The day I packed for my hospital stay, I tossed a few clothes into my suitcase.
When I straightened up, dizziness washed over me.
My vision went black, and I nearly collapsed.
My hand brushed against a small guardian angel statue on the table, knocking it to the floor.
It landed on the carpet with a soft thud.
The rug was thick enough that the statue didn't break.
But in the dining room nearby, the four people having breakfast snapped their heads around and stared at me.
I bent to pick it up.
Before I could, Amelia Hayes—my foster sister—shrieked, "Don't touch it!"
I froze, then quickly set the statue back on the table.
She glared at me and lunged forward.
"Who said you could touch my things? That's for good luck, and you've tainted it. You made it dirty!"
"It isn't dirty," I instinctively tried to explain.
"The carpet is clean, and it didn't break."
Amelia completely lost control.
Trembling, she raised her hand to slap me, her voice dripping with hatred.
"You know I'm not talking about the carpet! It's you—you work with dead people all day! You did it on purpose, right?!"
Her hand was already swinging toward my face.
I raised my arm to block it, but then someone shoved me hard.
It was my brother, Dominic Hayes.
He pulled Amelia behind him, his expression grim.
Then he turned to me, eyes full of disappointment.
"Charlotte, that's enough."
I stared at him for a moment, then laughed out of sheer anger.
"That's enough of what? What did I even do?"
Dominic fell silent, as if I wasn't worth arguing with.
Nearby, Mom sighed softly, "Lottie, you know your line of work... Items like that require purity and decency."
I looked at them—then around at this house that was supposed to be my home.
Suddenly, everything felt so unfamiliar.
After a long silence, I sneered, "If you think I'm so dirty, why do you even let me live here?"
My dad immediately barked, "Then get out!"
As I dragged my suitcase outside, his angry voice chased after me.
"She's always making things difficult for Amy! And it just keeps getting worse! We should have kicked her out ages ago to teach her a good lesson."
Dominic watched coldly from the doorway.
Mom sighed again as she comforted Amelia.
I left the neighborhood, planning to head straight to the hospital for admission.
Just then, my attending physician sent over the diagnostic results.
He added a few careful, gentle sentences, "You don't need to rush into the hospital. If there is anything you want to do, you should go do it..."
The sun was blazing overhead, yet I shivered uncontrollably.
No one could truly remain calm in the face of impending death.
Instinctively, I turned back to look at the house I used to call home.
Dominic stood on the front steps.
As our eyes met, he frowned, looking like he wanted to say something.
For a second, I thought he was going to show some concern.
Yesterday, the doctor had told me I looked terrible.
People in the business world said Dominic noticed everything.
If he asked, maybe I would tell him the truth.
After a while, he piped up, "Finally realized you have nowhere else to go? Then hurry up and apologize to Amy."
The last trace of hope in my heart vanished.
I suddenly remembered when I was seventeen and Dominic had brought me home.
Back then, he'd said, "Let's go. With me, Mom, and Dad, you'll never suffer again."
After one final glance at him—and at our parents standing behind—I tightened my grip on my suitcase handle, turned around, and walked away without hesitation.
There was no need to go to the hospital anymore.
Fortunately, after years of working, I'd saved some money, even though my job wasn't "presentable."
I had made a down payment on a tiny one-bedroom apartment in a remote area.
It was simple, but at least no one there would tell me to get out.
I moved in, then went to the funeral home, explained my illness, and resigned.
On the way back, a sudden rainstorm soaked me to the bone.
The water heater in the apartment seemed broken, and I was too exhausted to fix it, so I took a cold shower with my teeth chattering.
As I knelt to open my tiny suitcase, something dripped onto the floor.
It was bright red—jarringly vivid.
I touched my nose, and my hand came away sticky with blood.
I struggled to pick up my phone and scrolled through my contacts from top to bottom, only to realize there was no one I could call for help.
I could have called an ambulance, but I eventually put the phone down.
Because of my job, I had seen countless corpses and dying patients.
I knew exactly how painful the final moments of a terminal illness were.
If I was going to die soon anyway, I would rather skip those last days altogether.

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