My Husband Slept With His Mistress Outside My Hospital Room

The twin screens glowed bright blue in the bedroom.

On the screen, Mathias was in a luxury suite with two women at once. One on each side. Tangled limbs, dark hair, blonde hair, skin gleaming under soft hotel lights.

Mathias sat beside me on our mattress, drinking cold water from a glass.

"Look at it, Nyla," he said gently. "Three bodies. It’s an exercise. Nothing more."

My ears began to ring. A high, thin whine filled my skull until I couldn't hear the TV anymore. I couldn't even hear his voice. Something inside me snapped. It wasn't loud. It was just a small, quiet crack, like dry wood giving up in winter.

A few minutes later, Mathias turned off the screens and went to his study to take a call.

I stood up.

My feet felt light, carrying me into the master bathroom. I didn't think about it. I didn't make a plan. I simply opened the mirrored cabinet and took a fresh steel blade from his shaving kit.

I sat down on the cold white tile floor, pulling my knees against my chest. The metal felt like ice against my fingertips.

I didn't cry. My chest didn't heave. My body had simply reached the end of what it could carry.

I pressed the edge against my left wrist and dragged it across the skin. Then my right.

The sting lasted for a second, then a strange warmth rushed out. Red pooled onto the marble, bright and thick. I laid my head back against the side of the porcelain tub and closed my eyes. The ringing in my ears faded away. For the first time in months, everything went completely quiet.

***

The next thing I smelled was bleach and sharp antiseptic.

A housekeeper had found me in the morning, soaking in my own blood. Now I was in a hospital bed. Thick white gauze was wrapped tight around both of my forearms. A plastic tube went into the back of my hand, feeding me a slow sedative drip that made my tongue feel heavy.

Outside my door, the hallway was bright with harsh morning light.

I turned my head on the stiff pillow. Through the clear glass partition, I saw Mathias.

He was leaning against the nurses' station, looking clean and handsome in his dark suit. He had that easy, magnetic smile on his face. Beside him stood a young nurse in pastel blue scrubs.

Mathias murmured something low. The young nurse giggled, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

Then Mathias reached out.

His fingers slid smoothly to the small of her back. He rested his hand there, stroking the curve of her spine in slow, easy circles while she smiled up at him.

Right outside my door. While I lay with stitched-up wrists.

He didn't care if I saw. Or maybe he had forgotten I was even in the room.

A sickening heat flared in my gut. My chest locked up tight. The machine beside my bed began to scream.

*Beep. Beep. Beep-beep-beep.*

"Get away from me!" I croaked, trying to yell, but the sound came out raw and broken. I kicked at the sheets, thrashing against the thin mattress. "Get him out! Don't let him touch me!"

Two nurses rushed through my door, rubber soles squeaking on the floor.

Behind them, Mathias walked over to the glass. His eyes met mine through the window. He didn't look guilty. He didn't look angry. Instead, his face smoothed into a look of deep, sorrowful pity.

I saw it right away. I had just handed him the exact weapon he needed.

***

By three in the afternoon, a woman in a tailored grey suit entered my room. The badge pinned to her lapel read: *Dr. Ellen Whitfield.*

Mathias stood slightly behind her chair. His head hung low. He held a crumpled linen handkerchief, his broad shoulders slumped in absolute defeat.

"She’s been deteriorating for months, Doctor," Mathias whispered, his voice trembling with quiet misery. "Paranoid delusions. She thinks every woman in Seattle is sleeping with me. I tried to care for her at home. I hired private security just to make sure she wouldn't wander off or hurt herself. But last night... she nearly succeeded."

"He's lying," I whispered, clutching the sheets with bandaged hands. "He locked me inside. He forces me to watch—"

"Shh, darling," Mathias murmured. He stepped forward and gently brushed a damp lock of hair from my cheek. "It’s okay now. You don't have to carry the fear alone anymore. I’m going to get you real help."

Dr. Whitfield watched him, her eyes soft with sympathy. She looked at Mathias Carr—the wealthy tech billionaire, the devastated, loving husband trying to save his broken wife. Then she looked at me—bruised, wild-eyed, screaming about locked doors and video screens.

"She is a clear danger to herself," Dr. Whitfield said, signing the papers on her clipboard. "We'll admit her immediately to our private wing."

They loaded me into a transport van that evening.

At the facility, they took away my shoes, my sweater, and my wedding ring. They gave me a stiff paper gown and led me down a long hall where none of the doors had handles.

The first shot went into my hip within twenty minutes of arriving.

A thick, grey fog rolled over my brain.

Days melted into weeks. The nurses handed me paper cups with white pills every morning at eight and every night at nine. If I spoke, they raised the dosage. If I stayed silent, they wrote on their clipboards that I was making progress.

There were no clocks on the pale walls. No windows opened to the outside.

Slowly, my voice dried up. My hands stopped shaking. I sat in a plastic chair in the corner of the recreation room, staring at the grey linoleum floor for hours without blinking.

Mathias had always said he wanted to cure my emotions.

Sitting in the cold, drugged quiet, I knew he was finally getting what he wanted. I wasn't jealous anymore. I wasn't angry.

I was barely alive at all.