Chapter 4
511 Parole
I signed my name with a shaking hand.
In that moment, it struck me with brutal clarity: this pup—my pup—had only ever been loved by me.
The anesthetic was already flooding my veins, heavy and cold. Just before the darkness swallowed me, my phone buzzed again inside my bag.
Later, I would learn why.
At the same time when I lay unconscious on that surgical table, my parents were being slaughtered in a border battle.
…
John returned to the Bone Howl Pack on the third day.
I remember because that was the day I left the hospital with a bag of medicine pressed against my chest.
The clinic was as frigid as a morgue, smelling of bleach and disinfectant.
The doctor’s brow was tight with worry.
“Mary, your blood system is deteriorating too quickly. Painkillers won’t hold you for long. There are no other options.”
I managed to smile, lowering my gaze. “I know.”
He hesitated, then asked quietly, “Where’s your family? Is no one here for you?”
“They’re all gone,” I said, my voice flat, final.
Silence filled the sterile room. He didn’t ask again. Instead, he handed me the bag of medicine bottles with pity in his eyes.
The streets outside were empty, cold. I hugged the bottles close, walked home, and pushed the door open.
John was there, slouched on the sofa; his head bowed, and fingers laced together like he was brooding. He didn’t even glance up until I set the medicine on the table.
When his gaze finally lifted, something flickered in his eyes. For just a heartbeat, the icy distance softened.
I opened my mouth, ready to speak. But before I could, he stood and moved toward me.
Instinctively, I stepped back.
His expression darkened instantly, his voice sharp.
“Where have you been?”
I didn’t answer. My eyes had already drifted to his sleeve, specifically, the cufflink glinting at his wrist.
I knew it too well. Susan’s design. A gift she’d boasted about on f*******: with the caption: For moments only when we understand.
I looked away, my chest hollow.
Our marriage had eroded long before this moment. I should have seen it in the small things:
The ceramic mug I made him: “I’ll cherish it forever,” he’d said—later shoved into a forgotten corner.
The wool coat that was meant for me, but Susan wore it first.
Even when I dragged myself to the hospital, weak and swollen, he’d say, “Susan hasn’t been feeling well. Take her with you. She hates going alone.”
All the love I gave was siphoned away and handed to her.
I wanted to laugh. I almost did. But the sound never left my throat.
“You went to the hospital?” His eyes scanned my pale face, his tone unreadable. “What’s wrong? Are you… worried about Susan’s health?”
The words struck like ice water, leaving me breathless.
Even standing in front of me, he couldn’t see me.
- Scrittore
