the finale I
I knocked softly on the door of room 014 and heard my husband's gentle voice through the door. I entered.
Orson lay on a stretcher, his face bruised, an IV drip connected to his arm. The pristine white walls gleamed under the powerful fluorescent lights illuminating the room. No flowers, no letters—either the news hadn’t spread, or no one cared about his condition. Either way, it didn’t affect him. Sitting upright with a straight back, he stared fixedly at the wall. He turned his head, grimacing as he adjusted his posture to look directly at me.
"Bree…" he whispered. "Bree… You damn whore," he spat, frowning slowly.
I didn’t flinch, didn’t react to his cruel words. I stared impassively at this pitiful man, a mess of flesh and bone, of hatred and rage. The bruises and cuts across his face didn’t stop him from twisting his expression in disdain, nor did they prevent his gaze from burning into me.
"You… You’ll see… Cheating on me? Me?" He chuckled darkly. "And with a woman. My wife, a damn lesbian!"
I began moving toward his bed. He was so caught up in his monologue that he didn’t notice the sound of my heels clicking against the cold hospital floor.
Clack, clack, clack.
"Oh, I’m sure… I’m sure the man upstairs is having a good laugh at this one." He looked up at the ceiling. "And the whole damn town! Oh…" He coughed. "I bet those gossiping hags love the new rumor. Bree, the devout Catholic lesbian."
Clack, clack, clack. I was only a few steps away. If I stretched out my hand, I could touch his.
"Heh, and to think… I actually trusted you. A baking contest? God, if your life wasn’t so pathetic, I might have actually questioned it."
Clack, clack, clack. His face was within my reach.
In that catatonic state, I didn’t hear his voice, didn’t see my surroundings. His words were soft echoes in the depths of my mind, whispers in a storm. Silent, unnoticed. I could only make out his disfigured, demon-like face, his mouth moving endlessly. Words like 'bitch' and 'damn' reached my psyche, but at that moment, nothing made sense.
My hands moved on their own: I grabbed a syringe left on Orson’s bedside table and, without hesitation, plunged it into his IV drip. The syringe was full of a yellow liquid that mixed with the pure serum and quickly flowed down the tube. The air trapped inside followed, merging with the fluid as it descended into Orson’s veins.
And with one final breath, he left our world. His lifeless face stared at me, his empty eyes piercing my soul. I didn’t react—I wasn’t capable of processing what had just happened. My legs simply carried my body, my eyes guided it, and I walked with calm determination to the parking lot, where my car was parked. Unfazed, I started the engine, my destination clear, my plan simple but solid.
٭٭٭
"We’re leaving."
"What are you talking about, Bree? Have you spoken to Orson yet?" Katherine stared at me in shock while tossing a few blouses into my travel bag.
"I said, we’re leaving."
I headed for the bathroom, but she grabbed my wrist tightly. She forced me to look at her.
"I’m not doing anything until you tell me what’s going on. Now. Right now."
After my catatonic state, I had slowly regained clarity. The drive from the hospital to my house had made the magnitude of my actions painfully clear. I had just taken a man’s life. And not just any man—my husband. The one I had promised eternal love, the one I had vowed to care for and serve. This—all of this—went against everything I believed in. This wasn’t me. I didn’t know what had happened.
The only thing keeping me standing, the only thing preventing me from collapsing into sobs and regret, was movement. The plan.