Chapter 1 - The Poison of Pity
I lay on the cold bathroom tile,
listening to the sound of the toilet water still swirling,
carrying my only hope for comfort down into the dark pipes.
The white light of the bathroom was blinding,
reflecting off the chrome fixtures with a cruel,
merciless glare.
Miriam stood above me like a statue of judgment,
her hands folded neatly over her floral apron,
as if she had just performed a holy act of purification.
I could feel the surgical drains tugging at my skin,
thin plastic tubes filled with the fluids of a body trying to heal,
now threatened by the sudden absence of the medication that kept the agony at bay.
"You should thank me,"
she whispered,
her voice dripping with a sickly sweet condescension.
"A body that is numbed by drugs cannot feel the presence of the Spirit."
I tried to speak,
but my throat was dry,
parched by the remnants of anesthesia and the salt of unshed tears.
Garrick stood behind her,
his shadow falling long and heavy across my broken form,
the man I had once promised to love and honor until death.
He didn't reach down to help me.
He didn't offer a hand to pull me away from the freezing floor.
Instead,
he looked at his watch,
his brow furrowed in annoyance.
"We’re going to be late for the committee meeting,
Mother,"
he said,
his voice flat and devoid of any warmth.
"Don't worry about her,"
he added,
glancing at me with a look of pure,
unadulterated resentment.
"She’s just playing the victim again."
"Cancer wasn't enough for her,"
he scoffed,
kicking a stray cotton ball away from my hand.
"Now she wants to be a junkie in my own house."
The word 'junkie' hit me harder than a physical blow.
I had spent two weeks in a hospital bed,
fighting for my life,
dreaming of the day I could come home to my own bed.
I didn't realize I was coming home to a prison.
I didn't realize the man I married viewed my survival as a burden.
Miriam leaned down,
her face inches from mine,
so I could smell the peppermint on her breath and the starch on her collar.
"The lawn mower is in the garage,"
she said,
her eyes flashing with a hidden malice.
"The neighbors are starting to talk about how unkempt the yard looks."
"It reflects poorly on our family's discipline."
"And since you're so fond of resting,
perhaps a little hard work will remind you of what it means to be a wife."
They turned together,
a synchronized unit of cruelty,
and walked out of the room.
I heard the click of the lock.
I heard their footsteps fade down the hallway.
The silence that followed was heavier than the pain.
It was the silence of a grave.
I squeezed my eyes shut,
trying to breathe through the fire in my chest.
Every inhale felt like a thousand needles.
Every exhale felt like a surrender.
But as I lay there,
staring at the underside of the vanity,
the despair began to burn away.
In its place,
a cold,
hard stone of realization settled in my gut.
They didn't want me to get better.
They wanted me to break.
They wanted to use my illness to erase who I was.
I reached out with a trembling hand toward the loose molding.
My fingers brushed against the cold plastic of the hidden phone.
I pulled it toward me,
cradling it like a holy relic.
I wasn't just a patient.
I wasn't just a wife.
I was a woman who had a secret.
And my secret had a name.
Ethan.
My brother,
the man they thought I had forgotten.
The man they thought I had cut off because of their 'Christian' influence.
I turned the phone on,
the screen's blue light illuminating the tears on my cheeks.
I pressed the call button.
May you like
I didn't ask for a miracle.
I asked for a war.
