"Apologize," Bart snarled. He moved his body between Aleigha and Crysta, shielding the crying woman. "Right now. Get on your knees and apologize."
Aleigha smoothed a wrinkle on her sleeve. She looked bored.
"Apologize for what? Killing a mosquito?"
"She pushed me!" Crysta wailed from behind Bart's back. "She said she wanted you to suffer!"
Bart pointed at the door, his finger shaking with rage. "Get out. If you don't give the blood today, don't expect a single penny of settlement money. I will bury you in legal fees."
Aleigha laughed. It was a soft, genuine sound of amusement that unnerved him more than her anger.
"Bart," she said, shaking her head. "You really think this is about money? Still?"
She took a step forward. Bart tensed, bracing for an attack.
But Aleigha didn't aim for him. She reached past him, her movement blurringly fast, and grabbed Crysta's left wrist.
"No!" Crysta shrieked, trying to yank back.
Aleigha held on. She shoved the sleeve of Crysta's hospital gown up to the elbow.
"Look," Aleigha commanded.
There, on the pale forearm, was a bandage. It was the size of a postage stamp. Next to it, on the bedside table, sat a small fruit paring knife.
Aleigha ripped the bandage off.
Underneath was a scratch. A tiny, thin red line that had already clotted. It looked like a paper cut.
"This?" Aleigha pointed at the scratch. "This is 'life-threatening internal bleeding'? This is why I needed to rush here?"
Bart stared at the arm. He blinked. His brain tried to reconcile the image with the emergency texts he had received.
"She... she felt faint," Bart stammered, the conviction draining from his voice.
"Look at her face, Bart," Aleigha said ruthlessly. "She has more color in her cheeks than I do. She's blushing."
Crysta yanked her arm back, covering the scratch. "It's internal! You don't understand medicine!"
"I understand enough," Aleigha cut her off. She turned her gaze fully on Bart.
"For three years," Aleigha said, her voice trembling slightly now, not from fear, but from the sheer weight of the truth. "I wasn't your wife. I was a bio-container. You kept me fed, you kept me housed, just so I would be fresh when your real love needed a top-up."
Bart opened his mouth. He wanted to say that wasn't true. He wanted to say he cared. But the words died in his throat because, looking at the scratch on Crysta's arm, he knew she was right.
"I have Rh-negative blood," Aleigha continued. "Rare. Just like her. That was the only line on my resume you cared about."
Bart looked away. He couldn't meet her eyes. The shame was a hot, prickly sensation crawling up his neck.
"Well," Aleigha said. "The container is broken."
She reached into her tote bag. She pulled out a thick stack of folded papers.
She threw them into the air.
The papers separated, fluttering down like giant snowflakes. They drifted over the bed, landing on Bart's shoulders, on Crysta's lap, on the floor.
"Read them," Aleigha said.
Bart picked one up off the floor. It was a donation receipt from the Red Cross, dated two years ago. 450ml. Donor fainted post-procedure.
He picked up another. Emergency direct transfusion. 500ml.
There were dozens of them. A paper trail of her life force, drained away to keep his fantasy alive.
"Every drop is recorded," Aleigha said. "One day, I'll make you pay for it all. With interest."
She turned and walked toward the door. Her back was straight, her head high.
Bart stood amidst the sea of papers. He looked at the dates. He saw his wedding anniversary. He saw her birthday. He saw Christmas Eve.
A cold knot of dread formed in his stomach.
"Aleigha!" he called out. It was a reflex.
She didn't stop. She didn't look back. She walked out of the room and disappeared into the hallway.
Crysta tugged on Bart's jacket. "Bart, baby, I feel dizzy again... don't look at those papers..."
Bart didn't answer. He stared at the empty doorway. For the first time in three years, the room felt empty without her.
