When I was critically injured in a car accident and left immobilized in a hospital bed, my husband, Ethan, stormed into the room in a rage that instantly filled the air. There was no fear on his face. No concern. Just fury.
“Stop this ridiculous drama!” he shouted, his voice sharp and unforgiving. “Get out of that bed and come home with me! I’m not wasting my money on this nonsense!”
Before I could react, his hands were on me. He grabbed me roughly, trying to drag me off the bed. Pain exploded through my body as I resisted, every broken bone screaming. That resistance only made him angrier.
I froze as I watched his fists curl tightly at his sides, his knuckles pale, his eyes burning with hatred.
“You think you can talk back to me, Nancy?” he hissed.
I didn’t even have time to respond.
He lunged forward, his face twisted in rage, raised both fists, and slammed them into my stomach. A violent wave of pain tore through my already shattered body. The air left my lungs in a choking gasp as I clutched my sides, trapped and helpless, unable to move.
Fear flooded my mouth with a metallic taste. My heart raced as footsteps rushed toward the room.