The Last 24 Hours

The cell phone in my pocket vibrated three times. It was a bank notification—the eighty-thousand compensation payment from my father's car accident had finally come through. My fingertips pressed against my palm. A faint scar still lingers there, a mark from Viola Lincoln's knife. The last time she stabbed me, the knife was far more brutal. Suddenly, a sharp pain clenched my heart. It wasn't an illusion—it was a side effect of my 'resurrection.' I only have twenty-four hours left. "Has the money arrived?" Viola Lincoln's voice came from the living room. She shuffled over in slippers, eyes fixed intently on my cell phone screen. "After your birthday tomorrow, transfer the money to my brother." Her tone wasn't a request—it was a command. I looked up at her. Her hair was messy, but she had put on lipstick—probably just finished speaking with her brother. "I also need to request leave for Larry." I added. Viola frowned. "Why ask for leave? There's a monthly exam next week." "To take Mom out for a couple of days." I held her gaze. Sure enough, she hesitated for a moment, then waved her hand dismissively. "What a waste of money! Mom's legs are bad; going out would only be misery." "I want to take her there." My voice deepened slightly. My heart ached again, like a sharp needle piercing it. Last time I mentioned taking Mom on a trip, Viola broke a bowl and was quite angry. I stood up and walked toward the balcony. Outside the window, the phoenix tree's leaves lay scattered all over the ground. "Dad has passed; she's hurting inside." Viola followed me, tugging at my sleeve. "It's not that we don't want you to fulfill your filial duties, but Larry has exams, and my brother is still waiting to buy a car—" "I’ll transfer the money on Monday." I cut her off. Her expression changed, then quickly softened. "Fine, just two days anyway." I know what she's thinking. She believes I can't get away; sooner or later, the 800,000 will end up with her brother. I took out my cell phone and called Mom. The phone rang five times before she answered. "Felix, what's wrong?" Mom's voice was a little hoarse, probably from sorting through Dad's old clothes again. "Mom, I'm taking you to Glory Mountain." There was silence on the other end for a few seconds. "Glory Mountain? That place is far, and the tickets are expensive—" "I've already booked the tickets. I'll pick you up in ten minutes." I didn't give her a chance to refuse.