I woke up at the treatment center with cold liquid medication running into my left hand through an IV line.
A nurse walked into the room, pushing a cart, and dropped two white pills onto the tray. "Mrs. Holt, it is time for your medication."
I said, "I want to see the director."
"Your doctor will arrange that after you complete the treatment." The nurse handed me a glass of water expressionlessly.
I held the pills in my mouth and took a sip of water, pretending to swallow them.
As soon as she turned around to take the tray away, I bit down on the tip of my tongue and pushed the pills behind my gums.
The moment the door was locked, I leaned over the side of the bed, spit the pills into a tissue, and crushed them forcefully.
But during my first two days there, I had been completely unguarded.
And less than half an hour after taking the medication, my limbs would become completely weak, and I would lose consciousness as if my mind were being forcibly shut down.
Whenever I woke up, I had to write my own name hard in my palm just to remember it.
After that, I stopped swallowing the pills.
I hid them under the mattress or flushed them down the toilet to the drain.
But I could not avoid the injections.
Whenever the needle pierced into my vein, I clenched my fist tightly until my nails dug deep into my palm.
The intense pain was the only thing keeping me conscious.
On the fourth day, the screen on the wall of my room suddenly lit up.
Sharon appeared on the screen wearing Nate's oversized shirt, sitting on the bed in the master bedroom that Nate and I had shared. She raised a glass of red wine toward the camera.
Then Nate walked out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel, followed by scenes of the two of them having sex.
That master bedroom had been remodeled by me personally.
It was now their playground of lust.
I could not cut the power of it, so the video kept playing on a loop.
I had fought back and broken down. I smashed the screen with all the strength I had.
But a new screen would soon be installed, playing the same sickening video that made me want to throw up.
I stopped wasting my energy smashing the screens and turned around, resting against the headboard.
That evening, I heard the door unlock.
Sharon walked in on high heels and waved for the nurse to leave.
She picked up the remote and turned off the video, then sat across from me. "Why aren't you making a scene today?"
I stared at her coldly without saying a word.
She pulled a venue confirmation form from her bag and dropped it in front of me. "Nate chose the manor where you always wanted to have your wedding. You never got to have a wedding ceremony back then, but now he is giving one to me next month."
I stared at the paper.
Back then, Holt Group had been on the verge of going bankrupt, and Nate had begged me to postpone our wedding.
I had waited seven years in the wedding dress I had altered twice to get the right fit.
Sharon slowly folded the confirmation form. "Are you still wondering why Nate was so certain that you were sick?"
She leaned closer and lowered her voice. "Of course there was something wrong with the tea you had been drinking for the past six months."
I looked up sharply.
"When I first started adding the drugs into them, I was even worried the dosage was not high enough," she said with blatant mockery in her eyes. "But now that you have been labeled as having a severe psychiatric disorder, no one will believe anything you say."
She stood up and smoothed down her skirt before giving me a sweet smile. "Jody, you absolutely have to attend our wedding."
After the door closed, I remained in the same position and counted to thirty.
Once I was sure she had gone far enough, I reached for the sleeve of my hospital gown.
A tiny button-sized recording device was hidden inside.
The young foreign caretaker with a look of sympathy and reluctance to see what was going on with me had secretly slipped it into my palm while bringing me my medication the night before.
Every word Sharon had said while gloating over me had been recorded with perfect clarity.
I pressed the call button beside my bed.
The person who opened the door and came in was that foreign caretaker.
I deliberately swept the water glass off the bedside table and sent it crashing to the floor.
The moment she bent down to clean up the shards, I yanked the IV needle out of the back of my hand.
Blood immediately welled up and dripped onto the pure white sheets.
"Mrs. Holt!" she cried out and rushed over to stop me.
As she grabbed my hand to press against the puncture wound, I slipped the tiny recording device precisely into her pocket.
She paused for a moment and gave me a long, knowing look before turning and running to call the doctor.
I knew that the moment she finished her shift and walked out of this signal-blocked building, the recording would be automatically sent to the overseas secure email address I had set up in advance.
