Chapter 4
The door clicked shut with a terrible finality.
It sealed away Victor, Emily, and the future they were building together.
And with it, it sealed away the last, foolish shred of hope I had ever held for him.
The two security guards hauled me away like I was a piece of trash.
A sharp, stabbing pain in my stomach made me gasp, and I felt a hot rush of blood between my legs. My vision flickered in and out, and the stares from everyone in the hallway felt like needles pricking my skin.
"T-take me to the ER..." I barely managed to whisper, cold sweat soaking my back.
The security guards, probably afraid I'd cause trouble, hurried me off to the emergency room.
The ER doctor's face turned grim after his examination. "You're showing clear signs of a threatened miscarriage. There's active bleeding. Did you undergo severe emotional stress recently?
"This is critical. We need to admit you immediately to try and save this pregnancy. Is your family here? Who can sign the admission forms?"
Lying on the cold exam table, I stared blankly at the white ceiling as his urgent words washed over me. Inside, I felt my heart plummet into some ancient, frozen abyss.
To save the pregnancy?
For who? For the baby whose own father treated it like garbage and sent me to the operating table? For this unexpected life, conceived just so its father and his new woman could steal my chance at motherhood?
My body, my womb—it was all one big, cruel joke. Just a tool for them to pump full of drugs when it suited their plan, and then discard when I was no longer useful.
A wave of bitter, icy hatred washed over me, numbing all the physical pain.
I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, only an icy, lifeless calm remained.
"Doctor," I said, my voice rough but clear. "I don't want to keep this pregnancy."
He stared at me, shocked. "Miss, that's extremely dangerous right now. Forcing a miscarriage in your condition could cause serious harm. You might even—"
"I get it," I cut him off, my tone flat and final. "Just set up the operation. Clean it out."
The doctor looked into my deadened eyes, started to say something, and then just sighed in resignation. "Alright. You'll need to sign a surgical consent form. Is there anyone here with you? A family member?"
"I'll sign for myself," I said. Pushing myself up, I took the pen. My hand was shaking badly, but I gripped it so tightly that I practically carved my name—Helen Summers—onto the page.
I handed back the pen and lay down again. I felt like nothing but an empty shell, a puppet whose strings had been cut.
The icy medical tools invaded my body once again.
This time, there was no blackout, no surprises.
Only pain—clear, raw, and stripping me down to nothing.
This time, I was fully conscious.
Every second was etched into me. I felt that fragile life being systematically broken and scraped away, each precise, clinical stroke a brand of searing pain on my soul. It would never fade.
And woven through the physical torment were the ghosts that haunted me: Victor and Emily, wrapped around each other in their perfect picture. The sharp crack of his slap still rang in my ears. The degrading shame of being hauled away like a criminal.
This pain was more than physical. It was like a funeral.
A funeral for the child who never got a fighting chance.
A funeral for three years I'd poured into a marriage that was nothing but a lie.
A funeral for the self who had loved too blindly, who was now ground down to something less than dust.
From this day on, hatred was the only thing keeping me alive.