His Illness Was A Weapon

Carte

arter, we understand you're going through a difficult time," her voice was clipped, professional, devoid of warmth. "But

ing left to fight for, nothing left to protect. "Understood," I managed, the word a dry

om invasion. In the living room, a cheap, gaudy pink scrunchie lay on the white marble coffee table, a braz

clean, to abhor any stray object, any foreign scent. And now, this. He had broken all his own rules,

pt in, a saccharine smile on her face, clutching a designer handbag I knew Jackson had b

ve packed your bags by now." She glanced at the pink scrunchie in my hand and her smile widened, a p

ut of my house," I said,

e news that might make you reconsider your departure." She paused, her eyes gl

My mind reeled, a sickening carousel of images. My own lost child, the child I co

ed, my voice barely a w

ook a step closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But don't worry. We can work something out. Jackson is still fond of you, in his own way. You can stay,

the child you conceived with my husband in my own home, after he d

cence. "It's not like you can have children. Everyone knows that.

ed me for, claiming my grief was "unhygienic" and "depressing." The one he had just casually di

The sterile white hospital room, the agonizing pain, the empty ache in my womb. The doctor'

, a quiet soldier against the creeping anxiety I had developed. I needed it. Now. But my fingers, shaking uncontr

aking her own medicine? Or is it something more... potent? Trying to get rid of your own little problem, perhaps?" She gig

e thought I was trying to abort my own baby. The sheer ignoranc

eked, struggling, but I was stronger, fueled by a primal, burning rage. I forced her mouth ope

oice raw and broken. "Here! Have some! Hav

I ignored her struggles, forcing more pills in

stood frozen in the doorway, his eyes wide with horror, taking in the scene: me,

s, her voice a strangled gasp. "She's trying

al shove that sent me sprawling across the marble. My head hit the

ills, his face a mask of concern. "What did she give you?" he demanded, his voice tr

her. My vision slowly cleared, and I saw him, on his knees on the bathroom floor, his hands covered in her vomit, not a trace of disgust on his face. He was actually cleaning

oor. "You monster," he spat, his voice laced with pure venom. "You couldn't

re, feeling the throbbing pain in my head, a chilling clarity washed over me. This wasn't madness. This wasn't a