#quueeuudued

[bellobambino]

The Weight, Part 1: $680

A man pushed to his limits grapples with a broken system, determined to make an impact no one can ignore.

806w

The fic series, The Weight, is a multiple part series highlighting Luigi Mangione's journey through the assassination of the CEO of United Healthcare, and the aftermath. Told in Luigi's first person perspective.

AN: these fics are more like a series of vignettes. my nonna always said "if i had more time i would have written less.". A love interest DOES come up in this story and she is fairly generic and self insertable. Don't worry.

Here we go:

$680

This story is about her.

Her voice is soft and wobbly. She sounds exactly like my Nonna. And for a moment, I’m not in line at the pharmacy at Walgreens—I’m six years old, sitting at my Nonna’s kitchen table, my feet dangling above the floor. My hair curly, black, wild, and impossible to tame. No matter how hard she tried. It smells like old oak, espresso, and that faint, powdery old-people smell that always seemed to cling to her. I’m nibbling on a biscotti I haven’t figured out how to eat yet—it’s too hard, and I’m too small, but I don’t want to disappoint her.

Nonna is talking about the saints. It’s always something about the saints with her.

“San Giuseppe,” she says. “He worked hard, Luigi. Worked for his family. He sacrificed.” She taps her finger on the table, her eyes locking onto mine, drilling the lesson into my soul. “Sacrifice, capisci? It is what we do. For la famiglia. For the people who need us.”

I nod. Those were all words I knew. But I don’t think I really grasped the concept of sacrifice until much later in life.

There was something in her voice that made me sad, even back then. Like there was a weight to the lessons she was stacking on my little shoulders. Every word felt heavier than me. Maybe that’s why my spine is so fucked up.

I never got used to the feeling that no matter how good I was, I’d never quite measure up to the generations of sacrifice that came before me.

The stranger in front of me has her same lilt.

“I’ve been on this medication for years,” she says, her voice cracking just a little. “It’s for my heart. I can’t stop taking it. It’s the only one that works.”

I already know where this is going.

“Well, it seems your insurance isn’t covering that brand anymore,” the pharmacist says, her tone flat, bored. “You’ll have to get your doctor to write a prescription for another drug. We can fax them, but it could take a few days for them to respond.”

The old woman blinks, her confusion spreading like a ripple in still water. “Oh…” she mutters, her fingers fumbling with her purse. “How much is it without insurance?”

The pharmacist glances at the screen, her expression neutral. “Six hundred and eighty dollars.”

God dammit.

“Oh goodness!” The woman’s voice rises, panicked now. “That’s most of my Social Security check,” she says softly, like she’s embarrassed to admit it.

The pharmacist shrugs. “You can call the number on the back of your insurance card and ask them why they stopped covering it. I’ll fax your doctor, but they’ll probably get it after the weekend. You don’t want to skip a dose of metoprolol.”

My blood pressure rises, and I shouldn’t be listening. This is her personal business. But it hits me like a ton of bricks. Because skipping a dose means her heart might decide it’s done without the meds. Because skipping a $22 pill means dying, maybe alone in her kitchen while the tea kettle screams on the stove.

Who would find her?

The market price for keeping herself alive is $680 that she doesn’t have. She opens her wallet, her hands trembling as she pulls out a credit card.

“I will use this…” she says, her voice trailing off, soft and broken.

The card swipes. It beeps. That’s it. She looks resigned. She takes the bag and walks away slowly, clutching it like it’s full of gold bars instead of heart medication.

And me? I’m standing there, fists clenched, filled with this white-hot rage that I can’t even see around. Tunnel vision.

Someone has to fucking pay for this.

The pharmacist calls me forward, and I take a breath. My legs feel heavy as I step up to the counter. She scans my prescription—$4 copay, smooth as butter. I don’t even have to think about it. But I’m not thinking about my prescription. I’m thinking about her.

I grab my little bag and walk out of the store, but I’m not walking. I’m falling—spiraling down into this endless pit of rage. I feel all the warmth leave my body through my feet, replaced by a cold, hollow static.

The rage comes back, but now it’s a dagger in my hand: sharp, deliberate.

I’m reminded that I’ve got nowhere left to go. Nothing to lose. No safety net, no real future. I don’t see a version of this life that isn’t dictated by pain and powerlessness.

I have nothing but my own free will. I’m worth at least that much.

And suddenly, the concept of sacrifice that Nonna was talking about is crystal clear.

I’ll wear the weight of what needs to be done so so others don't have to. I'll speak for them. Maybe not with words, but action.

Someone has to do something. Someone has to do the bad thing.

And that someone is me.