No Longer A Victim, Now I Rise

The fluorescent hum of the DMV was the soundtrack to my boring life, until I tried to replace my lost driver's license. "Your marital status. It says you're divorced," the clerk said, shattering my five-year marriage to Jackson Parks with a single, flat sentence. My husband, Jackson, the man who swore he loved me, had secretly divorced me three years ago. Not only that, he had remarried the very next day to Candida Camacho, the woman who had tried to murder me on my wedding day and left me infertile. And they had a two-year-old son, Joey. I stumbled home, my world a blur, only to find Jackson and Candida in our living room, arguing. "I hate having to pretend for that pathetic woman!" Candida shrieked. Jackson, my husband, pleaded, "I love you. I've always loved you." The man I sacrificed everything for, who swore to destroy her, was now playing house with my attempted murderer, and I was the fool living in his house, sleeping in his bed, believing his lies. The pain in my abdomen, a phantom ache from five years ago, flared to life, mirroring the gaping wound in my soul. I would not be his victim anymore. "Hamilton," I said into the phone, my voice clear and steady. "I need your help. I need you to help me die." Chapter 1 The fluorescent lights of the DMV hummed, a flat, endless sound that matched the boredom on every face in the room. I just needed a replacement for my driver's license. I' d lost my wallet last week, a simple, annoying inconvenience. Or so I thought. I sat on the hard plastic chair, my number finally blinking on the screen above the counter. E47. I walked up to the window. The woman behind the glass looked tired. She chewed her gum slowly, her eyes barely glancing at me. "Good afternoon," I said, trying to sound cheerful. "I need a replacement license. Elena Medina." She typed my name into her computer, the clicking of her long nails the only sound for a moment. Her chewing paused. She squinted at the screen. "Elena Medina," she repeated. She looked up at me, then back at the monitor. "There's a problem here." "A problem?" I asked. "Is my photo outdated?" "No," she said, her voice flat. "Your marital status. It says you're divorced." The hum of the lights suddenly felt louder. The air in the room felt thick. I forced a small laugh. "Oh, that must be a mistake," I said. "I'm married. My husband is Jackson Parks. We've been married for five years." The woman sighed, a puff of air that smelled faintly of mint. She turned her monitor slightly towards me. "The system says you were divorced from Jackson Parks three years ago." My smile froze. My blood ran cold. This wasn't just a mistake. It was impossible. "That can't be right," I insisted, my voice shaking a little. "Please, check again. There must be a system error." She typed again, more deliberately this time. She shook her head. "No error. The divorce was finalized on October 12th, three years ago. The records are clear." My mind reeled. Three years ago. We were on vacation in Italy that month. Jackson had been so attentive, so loving. He' d bought me a diamond bracelet, telling me every day with me was a gift. It didn't make sense. The clerk looked at her screen again, her expression shifting from boredom to a flicker of pity. "And," she added softly, "it says Mr. Parks remarried." The floor felt like it was tilting beneath my feet. "Remarried? To who?" "A Candida Camacho," the woman said, reading from the screen. "They were married the day after your divorce was finalized." Candida Camacho. The name hit me like a physical blow. A wave of nausea washed over me. The woman wasn't finished. She looked up at me, her eyes wide now. "And... they have a child. A son. Joey Camacho. He's two years old." My vision tunneled. The sounds of the DMV faded into a dull roar. A son. He had a son with Candida Camacho. Candida. The woman who had tried to kill me. The memory, buried for five years, erupted in my mind. Our wedding day. The sun was shining. Jackson looked at me with so much love it made my heart ache. We were at the altar, about to say our vows. Then, chaos. Candida Camacho, her face twisted with hate, screaming my name. Her family had been a business rival Jackson had crushed, and she had sworn revenge. She lunged at Jackson with a knife. I didn't think. I threw myself in front of him. The pain was sharp, searing. It shot through my abdomen. I remember looking down, seeing the white of my wedding dress turn a sickening, brilliant red. I remember Jackson's scream, his face a mask of horror and rage. The last thing I saw before I blacked out was Jackson roaring, "I'll make you pay for this, Candida! I swear on my life, I will destroy you!" I woke up in a hospital bed. The doctors told me I was lucky to be alive. But the knife had done irreparable damage. I could never have children. Jackson sat by my bed for weeks. He held my hand, his eyes filled with tears. He swore he would love me forever, that I was the only woman he would ever want. He said he would make up for my sacrifice, that our love was enough. He kept his promise to destroy Candida. He bankrupted what was left of her family's company, chased her out of the city, and made sure she was a social pariah. He had hated her. He had sworn to make her suffer. So how? How could he be married to her? How could they have a son? I stumbled out of the DMV, the bright California sun feeling harsh and cold. The world was a blur of colors and noise, but inside, I was numb, frozen. My life, my marriage, the love I had built my entire world on-it was all a lie. For five years, he had been living a double life. For three years, I had been his ex-wife, living in his house, sleeping in his bed, believing I was his beloved wife. I thought back on the last few years. The business trips that got longer and more frequent. The nights he came home late, smelling of a perfume that wasn't mine, which he'd blame on a client. The times he' d get angry over nothing, telling me I was being too emotional, too needy, that I was imagining things. Gaslighting. The word surfaced in my mind, ugly and sharp. He had been psychologically abusing me for years, and I had been too blind with love to see it. I finally made it back to the house. Our house. The one he bought for me, he' d said. A testament to our love. As I walked up the driveway, I heard voices from inside. An angry, familiar voice. Jackson's. And a woman's. Candida's. I stopped by the large window of the living room, my body hidden by the thick bushes I had planted myself. Inside, Jackson was pacing, his face a storm of emotion. Candida stood by the fireplace, holding a small boy in her arms. Joey. Her son. Jackson's son. "I can't take this anymore, Jackson!" Candida's voice was sharp with venom. "I hate you! I hate having to see you, having to pretend for that pathetic woman!" Jackson stopped pacing. He ran a hand through his hair, looking desperate. "Candida, please. You know I only did it for you. I love you. I've always loved you." My heart, which I thought couldn't break any further, shattered into a million tiny pieces. "Love?" she sneered. "You destroyed my family! You call that love?" "I had to," he pleaded, his voice cracking. "I was obsessed with you. I couldn't lose you. I would have done anything." "What about her?" Candida spat, her eyes flashing with pure hatred. "What about your precious Elena?" Jackson's face twisted in conflict. "I... I love her too." "You can't have us both!" He grabbed her arm, his grip tight. "I won't let you go. I love you more, Candida. You have to know that. I love you so much I secretly divorced Elena. I married you. I broke every law, risked my entire reputation, just to make you my wife." "I am the mother of your son," he said, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper. "Please, Candida. Just stay. I'll do anything." The little boy in her arms started to cry. "Mommy, don't leave. I want Daddy to stay with us." Jackson' s face softened as he looked at the boy. He reached out a trembling hand. "Joey, son, it's okay. Mommy's not going anywhere." Candida's expression flickered. She looked from the boy to Jackson. She leaned in and kissed Jackson, a long, possessive kiss. The boy clapped his hands, a small, happy sound in the silent room. I stood outside, my hand pressed against my mouth to stifle a sob. My body shook uncontrollably. The pain in my abdomen, a dull echo from five years ago, flared to life, a phantom ache that mirrored the gaping wound in my soul. He loved me once. He had held me and promised me a lifetime. He knelt at my feet and thanked me for saving his life, for giving up my dream of being a mother for him. And it was all a lie. A cruel, elaborate joke. I was the fool who sacrificed everything for a man who was playing house with my attempted murderer. The beautiful memories we shared turned to ash in my mind. Every loving word, every tender touch, was now tainted, poisoned by this revelation. He hadn't changed. He was just a better liar. A cold, hard resolve settled over me. The shaking stopped. The pain receded, replaced by an icy calm. I would not be his victim anymore. I wiped the tears from my face with the back of my hand. I took out my phone, my fingers steady as I scrolled through my contacts. I found the name. Hamilton Nixon. I pressed the call button. He answered on the first ring. "Elena?" his voice was warm, concerned. "Is everything okay?" My own voice came out clear and steady, devoid of any emotion. "Hamilton," I said. "I need your help. I need you to help me die."