Eight Years Of His Lies

Kiana Valenzuela POV:

A throbbing pain exploded behind my eyes, pushing against my skull. It felt like a jackhammer against concrete. I reached for my phone, my fingers fumbling. Greg. I needed Greg.

"Kiana? What's wrong?" His voice was groggy.

"My head," I managed to rasp, the words barely audible. "It hurts. So much."

He sounded annoyed. "I'm with Josh at the hospital, remember? He just fell asleep." But then, a pause. "Are you okay? You sound really bad." He didn't ask what was wrong, just if I was okay.

An hour later, his key turned in the lock. He found me on the bathroom floor, clutching my head. He knelt beside me, his face softened by concern. He brought me water, helped me take a painkiller. He even stayed, sitting on the edge of the tub, until the worst of the pain subsided.

"Josh was just really upset about Brittany leaving," he tried, his voice low. "He didn't mean any of that, Kiana. He loves you." He said it like a practiced line, a comfort he didn't quite believe himself.

Then he left. Back to the hospital. Back to Josh. Back to the life he had built away from me. I heard the door click shut, the sound echoing in the empty house.

The headache didn't truly go away. It lingered, a dull ache that intensified whenever I tried to focus. My body felt heavy, sluggish. A strange fatigue settled over me, deeper than my usual seasonal despair. I felt a chill, a profound coldness that no blanket could cure.

I knew I needed to see a doctor. But I couldn't ask Greg. I couldn't call a friend. I drove myself, my head pounding with every turn of the wheel, to an urgent care clinic.

"So, Mrs. Hoover," the young doctor said, flipping through my chart. "You're on fluoxetine for depression, right? And we have a prescription here for zolpidem, for insomnia."

"Yes," I confirmed, my voice raspy. "But I haven't been taking the zolpidem. It makes me feel groggy. And the fluoxetine isn't helping anymore. I feel worse."

The doctor looked at the pill bottle I'd brought. His brow furrowed. "This isn't fluoxetine, Mrs. Hoover." He held it up to the light. "And it's definitely not zolpidem."

My heart pounded. "What? That's what Greg gives me. He refills my prescriptions."

The doctor squinted at the label. "This is a high dose of a powerful sedative. And a low dose of an antipsychotic. It would certainly explain your symptoms – the headaches, the fatigue, the mental fogginess."

A sedative. An antipsychotic. Not for depression. Not for insomnia. My mind reeled. Greg. He refilled my prescriptions. He gave me these pills.

He wasn't trying to help me. He was trying to keep me quiet. Docile. Confused. He was trying to gaslight me, to make me believe I was losing my mind, so I wouldn' t question his lies. The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow, colder than any winter, sharper than any blade.

My body began to tremble, uncontrollably. The chill that had settled deep within me now turned into a violent shiver. My teeth chattered, though the room was warm. It wasn't just the cold; it was the sheer, bone-deep terror of being so utterly violated, so completely preyed upon by the one person I trusted most.

I needed to leave. Everything. Him. This house. This life. I had to get away before I truly disappeared.

I walked through the house, a zombie. I started packing, haphazardly throwing clothes into a suitcase. My eyes fell on a small, ornate wooden box on my dresser. Inside was our "marriage certificate," framed. It was a beautiful document, with our names, the date. Greg had always said he' d handle the official filing.

I picked it up. A memory flickered. Josh, so small, drawing a picture of our family. A crayon stick-figure me, a stick-figure Greg, and a tiny stick-figure Josh, all holding hands. He' d written, "Mommy and Daddy are forever."

My eyes blurred. I remembered the little note he' d tucked into my purse after our "wedding." It read, in shaky child' s handwriting, "Mommy, I love you more than all the peanuts in the world."

The words, once a sweet testament to his love and his understanding of his own dangerous allergy, now twisted into a cruel mockery. More than all the peanuts in the world. He was using those very peanuts as a weapon against me. He was using them to choose her.

A guttural sob tore itself from my chest. I fell to my knees, clutching the wooden box. The pain was beyond anything I had ever known. It wasn't just betrayal; it was a complete annihilation of my reality. My mother, my rock, was gone. My husband, my anchor, was a monster. My son, my heart, was complicit.

I grabbed my mother's small, wooden memorial tablet, the one I kept on my nightstand. I held it close, seeking comfort from the only person who had ever truly loved me without condition.

There was nothing left. No one. I was alone. Utterly, completely alone. And I had been for years, without even knowing it.

The sound of keys rattling in the lock. Greg. Josh. They were home. My heart pounded, not with fear, but a cold, desolate calm.

"Mommy, I'm home!" Josh called out, his voice bright.

"That's enough, Josh," Greg said, his voice a low reprimand. "Your mom's still not feeling well."

"But Brittany said I could have a treat when I got home," Josh whined. "She said I was good all day."

A sharp, unbearable pain lanced through me. Brittany. Always Brittany.

I walked out of the bedroom, my face blank. "Did Brittany also teach you to lie to your mother?" My voice was steady, almost too calm.

Josh froze, his eyes wide. He looked at Greg, then back at me. "No," he whispered, looking down.

"Kiana, stop it," Greg warned, his voice low. "You're scaring him. What has gotten into you?"

What has gotten into me? Only the truth. "The truth, Greg," I said softly. "It finally got into me." I looked at him, my eyes empty. "The truth about you. The truth about us. The truth about what you've been doing to me. All this time." He looked at me, a flicker of something, maybe fear, in his eyes. He didn't know yet how much I knew. He just thought I was "sensitive."

He looked baffled. "Kiana, you're not making sense. You're just tired. Let me order some food. We can all sit down and talk. You just need to rest." He was still trying to manipulate me, to calm me with false concern. But his words were hollow, meaningless. They were just noise now.