Chapter 2 - The Shattered Bedroom
The master bedroom was dark, the heavy curtains drawn tight against the afternoon sun. The air was hot, thick, and smelled of sweat, copper, and sickness.
On the bed, lying on her side with her back to me, was Hannah. She was curled into a tight fetal position, her knees pulled toward her chest. She was wearing the same white nightgown she had worn the day I left, but it was stained with dried blood and sweat. She was completely silent, her shoulders rising and falling in shallow, rapid hitches.
Beside her, in his small wooden bassinet, Owen was crying. It wasn't the strong, demanding cry of a healthy newborn; it was a weak, hoarse, exhausted whimper—the sound of a baby who had been crying for hours until his throat was raw.
"Hannah!" I screamed, dropping to my knees beside the bed.
I reached out, my hands shaking violently as I touched her shoulder. Her skin was burning hot, radiating a dry, dangerous heat. When I gently turned her onto her back, a soft, choked groan escaped her cracked, dry lips.
Her eyes were sunken, dark purple bruises of exhaustion circling them. She looked at me, her gaze unfocused, her pupils dilated with pain and fever.
"Ethan...?" she whispered, her voice barely a breath. "You... you came back."
"I'm here, baby, I'm here," I choked out, tears finally spilling over my cheeks as I gathered her weak, fragile body into my arms. She felt so light, so incredibly thin, as if she had been hollowed out from the inside. "What did they do to you? Oh my god, Hannah, what happened?"
"They... they wouldn't let me..." she whispered, her hand trembling as she tried to point toward the door. "They took the water... they took my phone... they said I was a bad mother..."
"Ethan!" my mother’s voice boomed from the doorway. She stood there, her arms crossed, her face hardened into a mask of cold, unyielding authority. "Stop this theatrical nonsense immediately. She’s fine. She’s just got a mild postpartum fever. I was going to give her some aspirin as soon as she woke up."
"Aspirin?!" I whipped my head around, my eyes burning with a hatred I didn't know I was capable of feeling toward the woman who gave me life. "She’s burning up, Mom! She can barely speak! And look at my son! Why is he making that sound?"
I leaped up, rushing to the bassinet. I picked up Owen, wrapping him in the clean green blanket I had brought. He felt incredibly hot, his tiny skin dry and slightly yellowed. He didn't even have the strength to open his eyes; he merely whimpered, his small mouth moving weakly, searching for milk that hadn't come.
"He’s dehydrated, Ethan," my sister Courtney said, standing behind our mother, her eyes darting around the room nervously. "We tried to give him formula, but Hannah went crazy, screaming that she wanted to breastfeed. She’s the one who let him starve, not us!"
"Get out," I said.
The room went completely quiet.
My mother frowned, her eyebrows knitting together in maternal outrage. "What did you say to me?"
"I said, get the hell out of my room," I whispered, my voice shaking with a dangerous, vibrating force. "Both of you. If you are still in this house when the paramedics arrive, I swear to God, I will throw you out myself."
"Paramedics?!" Patricia scoffed, taking a step forward, her voice rising in a desperate attempt to regain control. "Ethan, do not embarrass this family by calling an ambulance for a lazy, dramatic girl who can't handle a little pain! The neighbors will talk! Your career at the company—"
"I don't care about the company! I don't care about the neighbors! And I don't care about you!" I roared, pulling out my phone and dialing 911 with a thumb that wouldn't stop shaking. "Emergency! I need an ambulance at 1402 Meadow Lane. My wife is unresponsive with a high fever, and my newborn son is severely dehydrated. Please, hurry!"
I slammed the phone down on the dresser, immediately returning to Hannah’s side. I grabbed a clean washcloth, drenching it in cold water from the master bathroom, and gently pressed it against her burning forehead. She let out a soft, relieved sigh, her hand weakly grasping my wrist.
"Don't leave us... please," she whispered, her eyes closing.
May you like
"I’m never leaving you again, Hannah," I cried, kissing her hot forehead, her cheeks, her dry lips. "I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry."
In the doorway, my mother and sister stood frozen, realizing that the gentle, obedient boy they had manipulated for thirty years had finally broken his chains.
