Fifty Years of Silence

The monitor’s steady hum was the only thing keeping me from screaming as I watched my husband, the "brilliant" Dr. Charles Donovan, adjust my IV with the practiced hands of a savior. To the hospital staff, he was the grieving ER surgeon praying for his wife’s recovery; to me, he was the monster who had spent three years drugging my tea and grooming me for an organ harvest while his mistress waited in the apartment next door. The heart attack should have killed me, but instead, it triggered a flood of memories from a past life—fifty years of the same betrayal, the same lies, and the same wasted devotion. Charles thinks I’m the same trusting victim, ready to sign away my kidney to save his life. He doesn't realize that the woman who woke up in this hospital bed is no longer his wife, but his executioner. He wants my flesh to survive, but I’m going to give him a slow, systematic ruin that even his surgical skills can’t cut out.