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E
lijah Radcliffe took a stroll around his mansion’s gardens, taking in the beauty of a warm summer evening. The smell of a storm was in the air. He narrowed his eyes and gazed at the dark cloud formations.
His lips tightened. It would rain soon. He hated rain - it always brought back memories from decades ago, of his time on the streets, hustling and basically scraping for survival in the bitter cold. He had come a long way since those wretched times, and he hated thinking about it. Being a billionaire hadn't come easy; it'd taken years of hard work and dedication, but he'd made it. He’d become Elijah Radcliff, real estate mogul and one of the most powerful men in New York.
Moving past the wide green lawns adorned with beautiful white statues along the edges, he decided to go back inside. Staring at those rain clouds had stirred up a somber feeling, or perhaps it was something else?
He stood still and stared at his hands. There were slight wrinkles on them—the price of aging.
“Are you okay, Sir?” A voice called out from behind.
He turned around and forced a smile. It was one of the housekeepers; no point acting weak in front of her.
“I'm fine.”
He clenched his fingers, feeling more of that cold breeze blowing against him. Maybe that would stop the trembling. Knowing that the housekeeper was still watching, he took in a deep breath and climbed up the steps, pushing through the beautiful, white doors of his castle.
The halls were immaculately lit—portraits on the walls and art pieces tastefully arranged for maximum aesthetic impact. He stopped before one of the portraits and faintly smiled. It was of a woman, painted in blue, red, green, and yellow pastel colors. This was the first collectible item he'd ever bought, thirty years ago. A Monet. He always thought fondly of that trip to Lyon. It reminded him of his wife and son. But they were gone now, and a part of him had been buried with them. At least he still had Benjamin, his grandson.
Benjamin. He shook his head.
Walking past the array of artworks, he made his way into the study. He walked up to his favorite chair, adjacent to a large framed window overlooking his estate. With a glass of fine amber whiskey in his hand, he dropped into his chair and watched the lawns and gardens. The colors of the day faded as the dark of night slowly encroached on the estate. It started to rain, drops pattering against the window. His gaze turned toward the coffee table close to the marble fireplace. A variety of magazines—TIME, FORBES and the like – were scattered on it. All of them had his picture on the front cover. His eyes moved through the bold headlines:
ELIJAH RADCLIFFE, BILLIONAIRE AND NEW YORK REAL ESTATE MOGUL...
He was a man who'd seen it all; a modern embodiment of the proverbial rags to riches story. Nobody really knew much about his past, and nobody cared to ask.
With trembling hands, he poured himself another round from the half-empty, fifteen-thousand-dollar bottle of whiskey.
“You have to cut down on the alcohol, Elijah,” his doctor had told him only two months ago. He'd agreed, but his promise had only lasted a week. No one seemed to notice or care. His grandson was far too busy being wild and the boy’s mother barely noticed anything outside of the world of fashion and diamonds.
A bright flash ripped through the sky, followed by a rolling clash of thunder. Elijah sat up; his heart pumping fast. He uncorked the bottle, his hands still shaking, but then it got worse. His grip on the bottle weakened. He watched everything turn into a soft blur as the bottle slipped out of his grasp. He waited for the sound of the smash but there was none. There was no sound at all. Everything seemed to flicker around him, the lights going on and off as the air around him suddenly turned to fire.
Then he felt it. The sharp pain gripping him. It started from his chest and quickly spread through his body. Instinctively, he slowly stretched his hand towards the desk to his right—but it was difficult; he felt as if a heavy weight was pressing down upon him. Breathing heavily, each breath slow and deep, he fell forward, off the chair. His body crashed right next to the desk, his breath failing him.
He wasn't sure how long he lay on the ground, but his eyes remained open as people rushed into the study. There were indistinguishable silhouettes crowding over him, scrambling for his hands and legs. He felt nothing.
“Careful, watch the glass from that broken bottle,” he heard one of the echoes say.
“Sir?”
As the room went dark, the voices faded and traded places with another:
'Father!” A familiar voice called out for him. Distant and ethereal, not from this world, out of reach.
It took several days for Elijah Radcliffe to recover even a little strength. He lay in bed staring out the window. It was a peaceful morning; birds chirped right outside the windows and the air was fresh. He knew he should feel grateful to still be alive, but for some reason he didn’t.
He shifted on the bed, his head lolled to the side. His daughter-in-law Lucy sat on a chair beside him. She looked up at him when he turned.
“I want to go outside,” he said, making an effort to sit. His voice was shaky, as well as his hands, which ached with every motion. Lucy stood quickly and gave him a hand.
“But the doctor said—” She tried protesting but he held his quivering hand up.
“I feel much better now, I want to take a look at the gardens.”
She nodded and waved to the nurse standing by the door. The nurse quickly rolled a wheelchair towards the bed and helped Elijah into it.
Shaking her head, Lucy stood aside and watched as he was wheeled out. He did look better now, at least compared to how he’d been the past few days, but this was still the worst she’d ever seen him. His eyes were sunken and his face pale. The man whose name alone struck fear in the hearts of men now looked fragile and old. Even his breathing seemed laborious, as if he had to use all his might for each intake of air. But what frightened her most was the news the doctor had broken to them the day before.
