Rushing to emergency, antiseptic stench hit me. Mark paced like a caged beast, eyes bloodshot, hair wild. Spotting me, he lunged, gripping my arm—nails biting flesh. For an instant, his glare held hatred.
Crimson Fury
"Happy now?!" He snarled, voice venomous. "You pushed her! Challenged her! Now she snapped! Sophie slit her wrists, Emily! If she dies, you killed her! She's ill—depressed! Couldn't you yield?!" Each word stabbed like poison. His contorted face blurred; his grip hurt, yet I felt nothing. Under harsh corridor lights, the world drained of color. Emergency doors sealed; the "Resuscitation" sign bled crimson.
Breaking Point
Sophie survived. Bandaged wrists, deathly pale, she lay fragile on the hospital bed. Mark hovered, feeding water, wiping her face, murmuring tenderness as if she were glass. His gaze at me held icy distrust and resentment—like I were her would-be killer. Standing at the door, watching his devoted back, something inside me snapped. Eight years of marriage—endless fights, compromises, reconciliations, fresh wounds—exhaustion and despair finally crushed me.
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