The Thirty-Eighth Divorce's End

Sound came before sight. A low male voice, muffled and indistinct, as if it were speaking to me through a great depth of water. Then light, a sudden lance of it that sent a spike of pain through my temples. I squeezed my eyes shut, then opened them again to find a face with a surgical mask looking down at me.

“Mrs. Bruce,” the man said, his voice clearer now. “How are you feeling? Any nausea or dizziness?”

I tried to shake my head, but my neck was as stiff and unyielding as rusted iron.

“The man who brought you in is waiting outside,” he added, his tone neutral. “He asked to be notified the moment you woke up. Shall I call him in?”

A cold clarity spread through me, sharper than any fear.

Adores me.

The word was a joke. A cruel, bitter joke.

I thought of all the times I had swallowed my pain, all the years I had endured Ilene’s madness, all for him. All for our marriage.

No more.

The rage that had been a low, banked fire for so long finally erupted.

I looked at the doctor, my voice clear and steady despite the pain.

“I want to report a crime. I was pushed.”

I reached for my phone on the bedside table. “I’m calling the police.”

The door flew open and Ethan rushed in, his face pale with panic.

“Rory, what are you doing?” he demanded, seeing the phone in my hand. He strode over and snatched it away from me.

“Ilene didn’t mean to push you! It was an accident! She slipped!” he pleaded, his voice desperate. “Don’t do this, Rory. Don’t press charges.”

A pressure built behind my eyes, hot and immense.

“An accident?” I repeated, my voice shaking with fury. “Ethan, she tried to kill me.”

I glared at him, my eyes burning. “There are security cameras in the house. They will show everything.”

“Don’t you care if I live or die?”

“Of course I care!” he insisted, his grip on my phone tightening. “But Ilene… you know her condition. A police investigation would be too much for her. It could push her over the edge.”

He looked at me, his eyes begging for the understanding I no longer had to give. “Her life is already ruined because of us, Rory. We can’t destroy what’s left of it.”

I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood.

“Her life is ruined?” I asked, my voice dangerously low. “What about the accident, Ethan? Did you ever wonder why she was calling you so frantically on our wedding day? She wasn’t in any danger. She was trying to ruin our wedding.”

“What did I do wrong?” My voice broke, the years of suppressed pain finally pouring out. “I loved you. That was my only crime. If you were so consumed with guilt, why did you marry me? Why did you drag me into this nightmare?”

I was screaming now, tears streaming down my face. “You always have an excuse for her! Always! Do I have to be dead for you to finally see me?”

The words ripped from my throat, raw and bloody.

Ethan just stood there, stunned. He had never seen me like this. The calm, compliant Aurora was gone.

His face crumpled. He looked lost. “Rory…”

He reached for me, his expression softening with a pain that mirrored my own. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

He pulled me into a hug, his arms wrapping around my shaking body. “I love you,” he whispered into my hair. “I only love you.”

For a moment, I almost believed him. I almost let myself sink into the familiar comfort of his embrace.

But it was too late.

I pulled away, my gaze steady and cold. “If you love me, let me get justice.”

“All I want is for her to pay for what she did.”

He stared at me, his jaw tight. He seemed to be wrestling with himself. He looked at my bandaged wrist, at the tears on my face, at the raw pain in my eyes.

Finally, with a deep, shuddering sigh, he handed my phone back to me.

He had made his choice.

Or so I thought.

The days passed. The police came. I gave my statement. They promised to investigate thoroughly.

A week later, I was ready to be discharged. The police called.

“Mrs. Bruce,” the officer said, his voice professional yet apologetic. “We’ve concluded our investigation. Based on the evidence and Ms. Wolf’s documented history of severe mental illness, we’ve determined that we cannot press charges.”

“The evidence is insufficient to prove intent,” he explained.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “But the security footage! It shows her pushing me!”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bruce. The security system at your residence malfunctioned. The footage from that day was erased.”

The hair on the back of my neck prickled and stood on end. A peculiar chill traced its way down my spine, settling deep in my bones.

I hung up the phone, my mind reeling. I knew. I knew who was behind this.

I left the hospital and went straight to the house. I had to see for myself. I had to know for sure.

As I approached the front door, I heard voices from inside. Ilene’s voice, bright and cheerful.

“Oh, Ethan, thank you! Thank you for dealing with that horrible video! And for arranging that new doctor’s note saying I was having a psychotic episode. You even used your connections to quiet the police! I knew you still loved me!”

The floor beneath my feet seemed to tilt, and I instinctively reached for the cool stone of the doorframe to steady myself, its solidity the only confirmation that I was still standing upright.

He hadn’t chosen me. He had chosen her. He had lied to my face, held me while I cried, and then gone behind my back to protect the woman who tried to murder me.

The betrayal was so absolute, so complete, it was no longer an emotion but a physical state of being.