His Illness Was A Weapon

Alyssa Carter POV:

The call from the hospital director came the next morning. My voice was hoarse, my throat raw from silent screams. "Dr. Carter, we understand you're going through a difficult time," her voice was clipped, professional, devoid of warmth. "But your recent behavior has been... unprofessional. We need you to take an extended leave of absence. Effective immediately."

I didn' t fight it. My clinic was a wasteland, my reputation in tatters. There was nothing left to fight for, nothing left to protect. "Understood," I managed, the word a dry leaf rustling in the wind. I felt nothing, just a dull ache where my heart used to be.

I went home. Our home. Jackson' s sterile fortress. The scent of that cheap perfume still lingered, a phantom invasion. In the living room, a cheap, gaudy pink scrunchie lay on the white marble coffee table, a brazen splash of color, defiant against the pristine backdrop. Karma' s, no doubt. She was marking her territory.

I picked it up, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. I had spent years training Jackson to be meticulously clean, to abhor any stray object, any foreign scent. And now, this. He had broken all his own rules, not for me, but for her. For the woman who left her cheap accessories lying around like a common tramp.

Just as my fingers tightened around the scrunchie, the front door opened. Karma. She swept in, a saccharine smile on her face, clutching a designer handbag I knew Jackson had bought her. She looked utterly pleased with herself, like a cat who'd swallowed a canary.

"Oh, Dr. Carter," she cooed, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. "Still here? I thought you' d have packed your bags by now." She glanced at the pink scrunchie in my hand and her smile widened, a predatory flash. "Ah, you found my little souvenir. Jackson bought me this. He thinks pink suits me."

My blood ran cold. "Get out of my house," I said, my voice dangerously low.

She just laughed, a shrill, unpleasant sound. "Our house, dear. And I have some news that might make you reconsider your departure." She paused, her eyes glinting with malicious triumph. "I'm pregnant, Dr. Carter. With Jackson's baby."

The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. Pregnant. My mind reeled, a sickening carousel of images. My own lost child, the child I couldn't carry. The emptiness, the grief, the silent screams that haunted my nights.

"What?" I finally managed, my voice barely a whisper, a broken sound.

Karma' s smile softened, turning manipulative. "Yes. A boy, we think. Jackson is so excited. He wants a family. And you, well, you couldn't give him one, could you?" She took 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, be the 'auntie' figure, help raise the baby. After all, you' re so good with mental health. And Jackson's family is very traditional. They'd never abandon you completely."

My entire body stiffened. "You want me to... what? Help you raise the child you conceived with my husband in my own home, after he destroyed my life?" My voice was trembling now, a raw nerve exposed.

"It's a practical solution," she shrugged, a gesture of faux innocence. "It's not like you can have children. Everyone knows that. Jackson told me how upset you were after your... little accident."

The world blurred. My "little accident." My miscarriage. The one Jackson had never once comforted me for, claiming my grief was "unhygienic" and "depressing." The one he had just casually discussed with his mistress. He had divulged my deepest trauma, my most agonizing secret, to her.

My hand flew to my mouth, a desperate gasp escaping. The memory flashed, vivid and brutal. The sterile white hospital room, the agonizing pain, the empty ache in my womb. The doctor' s hushed words, the tears I couldn' t shed because Jackson had told me to "compose myself."

My vision swam. My hand instinctively fumbled in my pocket, grasping for the small bottle of clonazepam I carried, a quiet soldier against the creeping anxiety I had developed. I needed it. Now. But my fingers, shaking uncontrollably, fumbled, and the bottle slipped, scattering the tiny white pills across the pristine white marble floor.

Karma' s eyes darted to the pills, then back to my face, a cruel smirk forming on her lips. "Oh, what's this? Dr. Carter taking her own medicine? Or is it something more... potent? Trying to get rid of your own little problem, perhaps?" She giggled, a sickening sound. "Maybe some abortion pills, hmm? Don't worry, honey. It's too late for me. This baby is staying."

The world went silent. A red haze descended. Abortion pills. She thought I was trying to abort my own baby. The sheer ignorance, the casual cruelty, the venom of her words. It was too much.

My hand shot out, grabbing her by the hair, dragging her towards the scattered pills. She shrieked, struggling, but I was stronger, fueled by a primal, burning rage. I forced her mouth open, pinching her nose shut, and began shoving the small white pills, one by one, into her mouth.

"You want abortion pills?" I snarled, my voice raw and broken. "Here! Have some! Have all of them! Let's see how you like it!"

She gagged, choking, her eyes wide with terror. I ignored her struggles, forcing more pills in. Her face was turning purple, her body heaving.

Just as her struggles began to wane, the front door burst open again. Jackson. He stood frozen in the doorway, his eyes wide with horror, taking in the scene: me, kneeling over Karma, forcing pills down her throat, her face convulsed in terror.

"Jackson!" Karma shrieked, spitting out pills, her voice a strangled gasp. "She's trying to kill me! She's trying to kill our baby!"

Jackson moved like a flash, pulling me away from Karma with a brutal shove that sent me sprawling across the marble. My head hit the hard floor with a sickening thud, stars exploding behind my eyes.

He knelt beside Karma, his hands immediately prying open her mouth, inspecting the pills, his face a mask of concern. "What did she give you?" he demanded, his voice trembling with fear. Then his eyes widened. "Clonazepam! Alyssa, what have you done?!"

He didn't even look at me. He just grabbed Karma, dragging her to the bathroom. I heard the sound of running water, then her retching. He was making her vomit. He was cleaning 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 up her bodily fluids, something he would never, ever do for me. The man who wore gloves to touch a doorknob was now bare-handed, wiping puke from his pregnant mistress's mouth.

He finally stood, his eyes blazing, fixed on me where I still lay on the floor. "You monster," he spat, his voice laced with pure venom. "You couldn't have children, so you try to destroy mine? You're sick, Alyssa. Truly sick."

My breath hitched. Sick. Yes, I was sick. Sick of him, sick of his lies, sick of his hypocrisy. But as I lay there, feeling the throbbing pain in my head, a chilling clarity washed over me. This wasn't madness. This wasn't a psychotic break. This was pure, unadulterated hatred. And I embraced it. It was the only thing keeping me alive.