Taking Back What's Mine

The scent of disinfectant seeps once more into my nostrils, wielding a biting chill.
I lie upon the familiar hospital bed, my frail body wrapped in white sheets.
Red marks from intravenous needles linger on my arms like a series of ugly medals.
This is my tenth time hospitalized in half a year.
The nurse has just finished changing my dressing; her footsteps fade away.
The ward door is gently pushed open, the metallic hinge creaking sharply.
My husband, Mark Collins, enters wearing a sharply tailored dark gray suit.
His hair is meticulously combed, yet beneath his eyes lies a subtle, hardly noticeable weariness.
Behind him followed his assistant, Willow Lynn, the girl dressed in a pale pink dress.
In her hand, she carried a fruit basket adorned with cartoon patterns, her face wearing a perfectly measured apology, like a puppet meticulously rehearsed.
"Ruby, I am truly sorry; I accidentally bumped into you again this time." Willow placed the fruit basket on the bedside table.
Her voice was as soft as waterlogged cotton, gently falling into the air.
I stared at her without speaking, my fingers unconsciously clenching the bedsheet beneath me.
The cotton fabric creased, its rough texture rubbing against my palm, also scraping the wound within my heart long since scabbed over.
The last time, she "accidentally" spilled hot coffee on my hand, the red burn mark lingering for more than half a month.
The time before that, she "accidentally" collided with me at the stairway, twisting my ankle until it swelled so badly I couldn't even wear my shoe.
Every single "accident" bears the marks of intention, piercing my life like needles.
Mark Collins came closer, reaching out to touch my forehead, likely trying to gauge my temperature.
I turned my head aside; his fingertips missed, suspended in midair.
After a few seconds, he awkwardly withdrew his hand.
"Does it still hurt? The doctor said it's only a minor bone fissure this time; it should heal in a few days." His tone sounded gentle.
His voice rose slightly at the end, yet I felt an icy chill creeping over me, as if submerged in freezing water.

"Mark Collins, I want a divorce." I met his gaze and spoke each word deliberately.
Those eyes that once made me drown now held only cold unfamiliarity.
The tenderness on his face froze instantly, as if he hadn't heard me clearly.
His brows knitted together: "Ruby Miller, what did you say?"
"I said, divorce." I repeated, my voice utterly still.
As if remarking on some trivial matter unrelated to me: "These ten hospitalizations—none were accidents."
"You know it better than anyone in your heart."
Willow Lynn stood nearby, her eyes immediately reddening.
Tears, as big as beads, welled up, about to fall.
"Ruby, how can you say that? I truly didn't mean it."
"If you blame me, I'll apologize. Just don't stir up trouble over divorcing Mark."
She spoke, reaching out to tug at my sleeve, her meekness so profound it forbade harsh judgment.
Mark Collins frowned and turned toward me.
There was a trace of defensiveness in his voice: "Ruby Miller, Willow Lynn has already apologized."
"She's young, just graduated not long ago; it's inevitable she might be careless. Don't dwell on it."
Watching him defend Willow, my heart felt as if it were pricked by a fine needle.
A dense, stabbing ache, as those once sweet memories flickered through my mind.
He held an umbrella for me on rainy days, picked me up from work, gave me a custom necklace on my birthday.
He stayed by my bedside when I was ill, but now I realize, perhaps all those were carefully woven lies.
"Negligence?" I laughed, the sound thick with scorn, like shards of broken glass.
"Ten acts of negligence? Mark Collins, do you think I'm blind?"
"Can't see the malice in her eyes, or do you think I'm so foolish I can't see through your scheme?"
"That's going too far!" Mark Collins' tone darkened, his brows knotted into a frown.
"I'm busy with company matters every day, working non-stop from dawn till dusk."
"And yet I still find time to come and take care of you—do you really not understand me at all?"
"Take care of me?" I pointed at my leg, wrapped in a plaster cast, my voice rising a few notches.

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