Pain radiated through my body, so intense I nearly blacked out. I stumbled after them, needing medical attention for my throat, hoping he would at least drive me to the emergency room.
But the engine roared to life. As the car sped away, the side mirror clipped me, sending me sprawling onto the pavement.
From beginning to end, John never glanced in the rearview mirror.
A laugh bubbled up in my chest, but when it tore from my throat, it came out as a grotesque, rasping croak. The sound was alien. Broken.
Seven years of marriage. The love I had sacrificed my career, my family, my dignity for. What a magnificent joke.
Fighting waves of dizziness, I hailed a taxi and dragged myself to the hospital alone.
The examination was a death sentence.
The doctor explained that a simple scald could have healed. But the tea had been laced with toxins. My vocal cords were chemically burned. They would never recover.
My voice—the voice that had won the Magnolia Drama Award, the voice of a generation—was gone.
My legs gave out. I slid to the cold hospital floor. Tears fell in heavy, silent drops.
Just then, my phone buzzed. The manager from the café.