Chapter 22 Forgetting Is Not the End
It was well past midnight, yet Cecilia lay curled on the hospital bed, unable to find rest. The pain in her stomach had been gnawing at her for hours, forcing her body into a tight knot.
She had finally given in and taken a painkiller, but it barely made a dent. The pill seemed to vanish into her system without effect, as if swallowed into a void. Every joint, every muscle ached, as though her body were being dismantled and rebuilt in real time. The worst was the deep, crawling agony in her gut — like countless tiny creatures eating her from the inside — until cold sweat dampened her hairline.
Her gaze drifted to the bottle of pills on the nightstand. With a sharp breath, she pushed herself upright, poured the remaining tablets into her palm — roughly thirty — and swallowed them all in one motion.
Did she want to die? Not exactly. The truth was simpler, and darker: she wanted the pain to stop. But somewhere deep down, she admitted to herself that if death came quietly in her sleep, it might almost be a relief.
"You've lost your mind. Spit them out."
She hadn't even heard Rufus enter. Suddenly, his hand clamped around her jaw, forcing her mouth open, while his other hand reached inside to pull the pills back out.
Humiliation flared hot in her chest. She bit down on him, hard. The metallic taste of blood spread between them, but she didn't let go — the pain in his skin was a distraction from the fire consuming her own body.
Rufus didn't fight back. He stayed still, silent, until the worst of her convulsions passed and she finally released him. His finger was bleeding, a deep puncture mark where her teeth had been.
She braced herself for his anger. Instead, he gave a short, cold laugh. "What's this? Trying to kill me now? If you were serious, you should've gone for the artery, not my finger. This just feels like foreplay."
Even now, he could make a joke. And yet… somehow, the pain in her body had dulled. Maybe the pills she'd managed to swallow were finally working.
When she didn't answer, Rufus's irritation deepened. If he hadn't decided on a whim to check on her tonight, she might already be dead. Did she truly want to die that badly?
"You're something else," he muttered, contempt curling in his tone.
Right now, she was untouchable — too fragile to fight, too dangerous to provoke. He didn't argue further. Instead, he switched on the light and began methodically searching the room, removing the paring knife, any sharp objects, and every remaining medication. He left her nothing she could use to end her life.
Cecilia turned her face toward the window, refusing to watch him.
Following her gaze, he guessed her thoughts. "This is the second floor," he said flatly. "Jumping from here won't kill you. Even if you land on your head, odds are you'll end up paralyzed, not dead. And if that happens, you won't have to worry about refusing Blair's transplant anymore. As your husband, I'd be your legal guardian. I could sign the organ donation papers myself."
It was a naked threat. A shiver ran through her at the image — herself half-alive, trapped in a bed, powerless.
"I wouldn't give you that satisfaction," she said, her voice low. "Not while I have any dignity left."
He studied her for a moment longer, then left with the confiscated items.
Later that night, even after she'd finally drifted into a shallow sleep, the pain dragged her back awake. This time there were no pills. She bit down on her own arm to keep from crying out.
The next morning, the doctor froze when he saw the torn skin and bruises on her arm. He called for a nurse to bandage it immediately.
Word reached Rufus soon after. His expression was unreadable, but when he finally spoke, his voice was clipped. "Is there any way to ease her pain?"
Then, after a pause, he added, "Without painkillers."
The doctor hesitated. "To be honest, painkillers aren't ideal in the long run. Even with modern medicine minimizing side effects, Ms. Thorne's condition is too fragile. What's harmless to others could be devastating for her. And if she keeps taking them, her body will build resistance. One pill today might work, but by the tenth or twentieth episode, she'll need double or triple the dose."
Rufus's jaw tightened.
"Frankly," the doctor continued carefully, "the best thing for her is to keep her spirits up. Distraction, positive focus… that sort of thing."
Keep her spirits up?
That afternoon, Rufus appeared in her room with a wheelchair. "It's a nice day. The flowers outside are blooming. Let's go for a walk." His tone was awkward, as if unused to the words.
Cecilia stared at him, then at the wheelchair, as if he'd lost his mind. "I don't want to. And I can barely walk."
"That's why I brought this," he said, patting the chair. "Stop making excuses."
In the end, she found herself seated in the wheelchair, being pushed out of the ward.
At first, she was tense, silent. But the longer they moved, the more she noticed — the sunlight, the breeze, the fragments of other people's lives. For a moment, she could almost forget who was behind her, or what lay between them.
"That man we passed," she said quietly, "he has Alzheimer's. The woman with him must be his wife… but he didn't recognize her. If I ever forget the person I love, I'd rather not live at all."
Rufus gave a short, mocking laugh. "So you'd rather run from life than face it. Forgetting someone isn't the end of the world."
She didn't answer. She was too busy wondering if, in his own way, Rufus had already forgotten the girl she used to be.