Husband, Congratulations! I'm Dying

For a second, I thought maybe he’d finally stop. Maybe he’d look at me and see that I was already dying.

Instead, he laughed. “Cancer? That’s the best excuse you could come up with? You even bribed the nurse?”

I stared at him, my lips parting, but no words came.

“Enough.” He pushed me down into the chair. “Do it.”

The needle went in. My body trembled. The room spun, and I felt the warmth leave me bag by bag. Damon’s voice sounded far away.

“Take more. Harper needs it.”

I don’t remember when I blacked out. The last thing I saw was his back as he walked toward another room... toward her.

When I woke up, a nurse was changing my IV. She sighed softly. “Miss Rhea, why didn’t you tell him? Donating that much blood... it’s dangerous for someone in your condition.”

I stared at the ceiling. “It w-wouldn’t matter,” I said quietly. “He wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

All day I lay there, listening to nurses whisper outside.

“Mr. Whitlocke hasn’t slept all night. He’s been taking care of Miss Harper himself.”

“Yeah, he even feeds her and wipes her face like she’s a child. So gentle.”

I couldn’t listen anymore. I pulled out the IV and left.

...

When I got home, my phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

Harper had sent photos, dozens of them. Damon sitting beside her bed, spoon-feeding her porridge, brushing her hair back, fixing her blanket. His face soft, the way it never was with me.

I stared for a long time. Then I smiled.

In his heart, Damon only ever loved three people. My sister. The woman he thought I was. And now, her replacement.

I went to the drawer and took out the lighter. One by one, I threw everything into the brazier.

The gifts he’d given me when he pretended to love me.

The photos we took when I still believed him.

The necklaces we once called “matching.”

The fire caught quickly. It smelled like endings.

When the door burst open, I didn’t even turn.

“What the hell are you burning?” His voice was sharp. Heavy footsteps came closer. He grabbed my neck, slamming me against the wall.

“Who told you you could touch Sylvia’s things?”

I couldn’t breathe. My hands clawed at his wrist, but he only tightened his grip. Then he threw me down. The brazier overturned, sparks flying across the floor.

“Listen, Rhea,” he shouted. “If you ever touch Sylvia’s things again, I’ll make you regret being alive.”

Before I could answer, he grabbed my wrist and forced it into the burning brazier.

The pain was instant, unbearable. My scream tore through the room. The smell of my skin burning filled the air.

I fought, thrashing, reaching for anythin and my hand found a small stone from the shelf. I swung.

The sound was dull but hard. He staggered back, cursing.

I pulled my arm out, shaking. My skin was blistered and red, flesh raw.

“Look,” I said, my voice shaking. “Look carefully, Damon!” I pointed at the half-burned photo on the floor. “I was burning my own things. Not hers. Are you blind?”

He froze, eyes flicking to the photo.

Our photo.

The one where I was smiling beside him. Half of it was already gone. My face was disappearing in the flames.

He looked... shocked. For once, he had nothing to say.

Then his phone rang.

He answered, and Harper’s voice came through, soft and crying. “Damon, my wound... it’s bleeding again. It hurts.”

His expression changed. He turned toward the door.

“Burn it all,” he said flatly. “Burn every bit of your trash.”

He paused before leaving. Didn’t even look back.

“And for the record,” he added, his tone quiet but cruel, “every second I was near you made me sick.”

The door slammed.

I sat there on the floor, staring at the ashes. The room smelled like smoke and blood. My arm throbbed, but I didn’t move.

Because what was left to save?

The door slammed so hard the walls shook. Then everything went quiet.

I just sat there in front of the dying fire, watching the last of the flames turn to ash. The room smelled like smoke and burned skin. My wrist throbbed where he’d pressed it into the brazier, the skin cracked and raw.

By the time morning light slipped through the curtains, I still hadn’t moved. My whole body felt heavy, like I’d already died and just hadn’t realized it yet.

I dragged myself to the bathroom.

The woman in the mirror didn’t look like me anymore. My face was pale, my eyes hollow. The burn on my wrist looked like some ugly centipede curling around my skin. I stared at it for a long time before looking away.

Maybe this was how people looked when they were close to the end.

Damon didn’t come home the next day. Or the day after that. Or the next.

But the TV wouldn’t let me forget him. Every news channel showed him smiling beside Harper; buying her a luxury villa, holding her hand at some charity dinner, kissing her under flashbulbs like we’d never existed.

I turned the TV off. The silence was louder than the noise.

I picked up my phone and called him.

“Beep… beep…”

It rang so long I almost hung up. Then his voice came through, “What is it?”

There was laughter in the background. Harper’s. I could hear her giggling about something, calling his name.

“Come home,” I said quietly.

“No time.”

I swallowed. “The two weeks are up. I’m ready to tell you what I promised.”

There was a pause. I could hear him breathing on the other end. Then he laughed, sharp and cruel. “Rhea, how long are you going to keep using that lie? You think I’ll still fall for it?”

“I’m not lying, Damon. Just listen—”

“Enough.” His voice snapped through the speaker like a whip. “I’m on vacation with Harper. I’m done wasting time on your games.”

Then the line went dead.

I stared at the phone for a long time before I started laughing. It sounded strange... like it was coming from someone else. The laughter hurt, and somewhere between the sound and the silence, I realized I was crying.

“That’s it then,” I whispered. “That’s the last time.”

Outside, the sky was turning gold. I changed into a red dress, our favorite color and looked around the house one last time. Eight years. It was supposed to be a home. It ended up feeling like a cage.

I closed the door behind me softly, like I didn’t want to wake the ghosts.

The taxi dropped me off at the bridge. I stood there, the wind cold against my face, my hair sticking to my lips. The river shimmered under the streetlights. It was almost beautiful.

This was where it all began.

Where Nikolai and Sylvia died.

I leaned on the railing and closed my eyes. I could still hear their voices; Sylvia shouting through the rain, “Rhea, pick up the phone!” And Nikolai gripping the wheel, trying to steady the car.

I remember the headlights. The screech of tires. The crash.

My fault.

“If I hadn’t run away that night,” I whispered, “you’d still be alive.”

The pain hit me suddenly, sharp in my stomach. I bent forward and coughed up blood. It hit the bridge, bright against the red of my dress.

It looked like flowers.

“Nikolai... Sylvia...” I smiled weakly, feeling the world blur. “I’m coming.”

The wind picked up. My dress whipped around my legs. I stepped closer to the edge and closed my eyes.

The sunset bled across the sky, gold sinking into red.

Then I let go.

The last thing I felt was the rush of air, the chill of water swallowing me whole.