I overheard my husband on the phone by accident: “She hasnt got long left.” After that, I stopped taking the pills hed been giving me.
The study door was ajarjust a crack, but enough for his voice to reach me. Usually soft and warm, like a cosy blanket, it now sounded cold and businesslike.
“Yes, everythings on track. The doctors say she hasnt got long.”
I froze in the hallway, gripping a glass of water. In my other hand were two capsulesmy “vitamins,” as Simon Archibald, my husband, called them. “For your strength, darling. To help you recover.”
Six months into our marriage, Id grown used to his “care.” Used to the weakness, the fog in my head, the way my world had shrunk to the walls of our flat. Id almost convinced myself I was seriously, hopelessly ill.
But that phrase, tossed into the phone, held no trace of sympathy. Just cold, steely calculation.
On unsteady legs, I crept back to the bedroom, my hands shaking. At the window, I unclenched my fist and let the capsules fall into the thick lilac bushes below. No more of his pills.
The next morning, he came in with a tray. The same smile, the same “concerned” look. But now, all I saw was the maskand the predator beneath it.
“Good morning, sleepy beauty. Time for your medicine.”
I swallowed hard. “I already took them,” I lied, forcing my voice steady. “Found them on the nightstand and washed them down. Woke up early.”
He frownedjust for a secondeyeing the nightstand, the glass.
“Good girl. Taking care of yourself. Thats a positive sign.”
All day, I pretended to be as listless as usual. But it was harder now. My body, deprived of its usual dose of poison, rebelled. Chills, dizziness, sharp bursts of painful clarity instead of fog. I felt like an addict in withdrawal.
The next day, I “took” the pills before he could bring themtossed them into the lilacs. Simon was visibly irritated.
“Veronica, lets agree: youll wait for me. Timing matters with these.”
He grew more watchful. Lingered by the bed, stared into my eyes as if searching for something.
“Youre pale today. And your hands are cold. Maybe we should increase the dose?”
“Dont,” I whispered. “Im feeling a bit better.”
It was a dangerous game of survival.
Nights became torture. I lay awake, pretending to sleep, listening to his every breath. Each sigh felt like ice scraping my heart. One night, he got up and left.
I waited for the creak of his study door, then crept after him, gripping the wall to steady myself.
He was on the phone again, quieter this time. Almost a whisper.
“Shes suspicious. Refusing food, says shes not hungry. Shes too clear-eyed now. Her gaze has changed.”
I pressed against the wall. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure hed hear it.
“We need to speed things up. Ive spoken to the solicitor. Edward Olivers a sharp man. I told him, as her doctor, you advised setting up power of attorney while shes still lucid. Her signature, and its done. Eleanor Margarets estate will be mine.”
Eleanor Margaret. My mother. Shed died a year ago, leaving everything to me. The inheritance my husband already considered his.
I barely made it back to bed before he returned. He leaned over me, and I caught the chemical scent on his handsthe smell of my “vitamins.”
The next morning, I forced myself to the old dressing room. In the back of the wardrobe was my collectionvintage perfume bottles. The one passion Id had before him.
I lifted a heavy crystal flacon. Even through the sealed stopper, the scent of my past life lingered.
“What are you doing in here?” His voice made me jump. “You shouldnt be up.”
I turned slowly. “Just remembering what I used to smell like before hospital sterility and medicine.”
He grimaced. “Nonsense. Dust collectors. Actually, I found a decent antiques dealer. Hell pay well for all this glass. We need the extra cash for your treatment.”
His fingers brushed the bottle in my hand. And then I understood. He didnt just want my money. He wanted to erase memy past, my identity.
I lowered my eyes, hiding the flare of hatred. Nodded slowly.
“Fine. Sell it if you have to.”
His grip loosened. He hadnt expected such compliance.
“Thats my girl. Im only thinking of you.”
But I knew what to do now. His arrogance would be his undoing.
Two days later, the solicitor arrived. An older, balding man with a briefcase that smelled of mothballs and legal paperwork. Edward Oliver.
Simon hovered. “Veronicas very weak, Edward, but she understands the importance of this. Just power of attorney while shes unwell.”
The solicitor cleared his throat and handed me the papers. I took the pen. My hand, once feeble, now burned with strengthbut I made it tremble.
I leaned over, started signingthen jerked violently. A fat ink blot spread across the page.
“Sorry,” I stammered. “My hand it wont obey.”
Simons face went rigid.
“No matter,” he forced out. “We can reprint it.”
Edward Oliver pursed his lips. “Ive another appointment. But in this state are you certain your wife is of sound mind?”
First blow to his plan.
“Of course she is!” Simon snapped, too loud. “Its just muscle weakness.”
When the solicitor left, Simons mask dropped. He grabbed my shoulder.
“Was that deliberate?”
“I feel sick,” I whispered, real tears wellingtears of fury and helplessness. “I cant control my body.”
He let go, but his eyes were cold. He didnt trust me anymore.
That night, I didnt sleep. I waited. When the house fell silent, I slipped out. His study. The safe key was always on him, but I knew he kept a spare behind the books.
I found it. Inside: medical records, my mothers bank statements. Empty ampoules, a syringe. A prescription slip for a Dr. Arthur Seymour, specialising in neuropsychiatrya man Id never met.
I photographed everything on an old phone hidden in a shoebox. My trump cards.
The next day, Simon was overly tender. Brought breakfast, offered the “vitamins.”
“Take them, love. You need your strength. The solicitors coming back tomorrow.”
While he was in the kitchen, I pocketed a pill. I needed it analysed.
All day, I racked my brain for a way to reach the outside world. Then I remembered. Arthur Daniel. My fathers old friend, a barrister. His number was in an old address book.
That evening, while Simon was out, I found the book. But how to call? Then I spotted the bins. A reckless, desperate plan formed.
I took an empty perfume bottle. Inside, I tucked a note with Arthurs number and a plea for help. Added one capsule and my mothers broochsentimental and valuable enough to catch attention.
That night, I crept to the kitchen. Hurled the bottle into the bin. Now, I waited.
Morning came with the rumble of the rubbish truck. Simon stood by the window, watching me as I pretended to read. The bin lorry clanged. My heart stopped. Then it drove off. Silence.
“Get up,” he said coldly. “The solicitors due in an hour. And this time, Veronica, your hand wont slip. Ill make sure of it.”
Edward Oliver arrived at eleven sharp. Simon sat opposite, his gaze heavy. I picked up the penthen gasped, wide-eyed.
“Theres a face,” I whispered, recoiling. “Staring at me from the letters. Horrible”
I started hyperventilating, faking a panic attack.
“Veronica, enough!” Simon hissed.
But Edward Oliver stood.
“I wont be part of this!” he snapped. “Simon, your wife doesnt need power of attorneyshe needs a psychiatric evaluation. This is unlawful.”
He left. Another delay. Victory.
Simon said nothing. His eyes burned into me.
“Think youre clever? Fine. Want to play mad? Youll get your wish.”
He shoved me into the bedroom and locked the door. The trap had closed.
Time crawled. I sat on the floor when the phone rang. Simon answered.
Fragments reached me: “Who is this? What Arthur Daniel? I dont understand”
He slammed the receiver down. Stormed into the room.
“Whos Arthur Daniel?” he snarled. “And why is he asking if the Bluebird is
