If you don't love it, let it go

Mark's dream girl, drunk driving, left me on the brink of death. I begged him to take me to the hospital. He, a top-tier lawyer, refused, choosing instead to help her cover up the accident. Her husband, feigning concern, snapped, "Stop faking it! You're scaring her!" Later, staring at my lifeless body, Mark lost his mind.

1.

My soul detached, floating next to Mark. Always aloof, he stroked Sarah, his "one that got away," on the hospital bed, murmuring, "Don't worry. I'll take care of it." His eyes, usually cold, brimmed with tenderness. Married for years, he’d only shown me indifference, his voice laced with impatience. I’d played it cool, but the familiar sting of neglect resurfaced, now an unbearable ache.

His phone rang. It was the police. Mark's voice was firm, decisive: "Sarah had nothing to do with it! Ashley recklessly, deliberately, crashed into her." He clutched Sarah’s hand, his face a mask of self-reproach. A renowned lawyer, he was always composed, even now, using his legal expertise to shield Sarah from blame.

Another call. My mom. His tone shifted instantly, sharp with annoyance: "If she's dying, let her die! She put Sarah in the hospital. I should be suing her, not listening to this pathetic act."

Mom continued, "The doctors said it's critical. This might be our last chance to see her."

Sarah coughed weakly, whimpering.

Mark’s disgust was palpable. He barked into the phone, "Ashley, enough with the drama! You’re scaring Sarah! If you keep this up, there will be consequences!" He hung up.

He was convinced I’d intentionally rammed Sarah, jealous of his impending divorce.

Sarah sobbed, "I'm so scared, Mark. What if something happens to Ashley?"

His voice was ice, "She's putting on a show. Manipulative to the end."

My last moments were filled with a crushing despair. Memories of Mark flooded back, each one a painful stab. Tears welled up, my final two. The man I loved to my dying breath wished me dead. After all these years, not a shred of trust, just a distorted image of a vengeful wife.

2.

"Ouch..." Sarah winced.

Mark panicked. "What is it, honey? Are you in pain? Lie back down."

She shook her head, feigning fragility, expertly playing on his sympathy.

"Mark," she whispered, "Maybe you should check on Ashley. She’s hurt too."

Mark, touched by her concern, scoffed, "You’re too kind, sweetheart. Always putting others first."

Sarah, inwardly triumphant, pressed on, "Don't be mad at Ashley. It's my fault. I’ve been asking for so much help lately… She’s probably upset."

Rage simmered within me, a silent scream. Her saccharine act was nauseating. This was how she’d ensnared him.

Mark’s voice was resolute. "Don’t blame yourself. You’re new in town, you needed help. She’s just creating drama! Now look what she’s done to you. And then this fake dying act… I see right through her."

I’d cared for him for years, tending to his every need. Yet, this was how he spoke of me behind my back? I'd begged him not to leave. I felt like...