His words were gasoline on a fire. Disgust flashed through Norma's eyes.
"Check on him for what? You just got out of surgery—you need the doctor here."
"As for that piece of trash who has to compete with you over everything? He'd be better off dead!"
Norma carefully guided Percival toward his room, but her words drove into my chest like a blade.
But I didn't die. Penelope Whitney—the daughter of the man who used to buy my study guides—happened to pass by and found me. She called for help immediately, and I was rushed to the emergency room.
I survived. But my one remaining kidney had completely failed. I needed a transplant, and fast.
"The patient previously underwent kidney donation surgery, which compromised his metabolic function. With proper care, one kidney would have been sufficient. Unfortunately, he ingested a large amount of toxins."
"Not only was treatment delayed, but he also sustained blunt force trauma. Even the strongest kidney couldn't withstand that."
I knew the truth. My wife, Norma, had destroyed my only kidney with her own hands.
I looked at my reflection in the mirror—gaunt, hollow, wasted. I should have had a healthy body. Now I had nothing.