I Took the Blame, She Took My Life

"Dustin Wright!" My wife, Gretchen Payne, scowled. Her face was dark with impatience. Her eyes held none of the joy of a long-awaited reunion, only undisguised disgust. Instead of asking me how I had been these last three years, the first thing she talked about was her assistant, Dwight Reed.

"Greta, is Dustin still mad at me?" Dwight toyed with Gretchen's fingers. Half of his body was practically pressed against hers.

"I'm sorry, Dustin." Tears welled up in his eyes, and his voice trembled. "I didn't do it on purpose. I merely wanted to film a short video to document the surgery, but I accidentally hit a blood vessel…

"Greta hasn't slept properly for days in an effort to protect me. Since you love her so much, surely you wouldn't have the heart to put her in a tight spot, would you?"

He wanted to film a short video in the operating room? He had absolutely no regard for human life!

I looked at my right hand, which was trembling slightly.

Three years ago, I was the youngest genius lead surgeon at the municipal hospital.

Dwight had recklessly prescribed the wrong medication and left a patient in critical condition. Gretchen had dropped to her knees and begged me, "Dwi is still young, Dustin. He can't go to prison! Please help him.

"It's just a three-year sentence. Once you're released, I'll give you the position of hospital director! I'll love you for the rest of my life!"

I couldn't bear to see the woman I had loved for a decade in such a tight spot. Thus, I believed her.

My right hand had been stomped on in prison until its nerves died. For the rest of my life, I wouldn't even be able to hold a scalpel. Now, she was asking me to play the scapegoat for the same murderer twice?

"Gretchen, do you have any idea what I—"

"Don't push your luck, Dustin!" Gretchen's expression darkened instantly. "You're nothing but an ex-con now! Do you really think you're still that genius surgeon from before? Don't you just want money? Is a million dollars enough to make you spend another five years behind bars?"

Dwight patted the back of Gretchen's hand and sniveled. "Greta, maybe we should just forget it. Dustin just got out, so he's probably still mad at me. I'll turn myself in. Worst-case scenario, I'll never practice medicine again for the rest of my life!"

Gretchen squeezed Dwight's hand. "Don't be ridiculous! Don't worry, as long as I'm here, no one can lay a finger on you!"

I stared at their intertwined hands. The metallic tang of blood rose in my throat once again. "Gretchen, can't you see? My right hand is ruined… I still—"

Before I had the chance to raise my right hand, Gretchen slapped it down hard. Pointing at my nose, she snarled, "Not this again. How many times are you going to throw a pity party? Do you really have to keep using this trick to disgust me?"

I stood rooted to the spot. The nerve damage in my right hand was so severe that I could barely hold a spoon, yet in her eyes, it was nothing more than a "pity party".

"Dustin doesn't look too well, Greta. Is he really not feeling well?" Dwight asked with feigned concern. "Why don't we take him to the hospital for a checkup first?"

"A checkup?" she sneered. "Do you know how much money I spent bribing people while he was inside for three years? He lived more comfortably than anyone else in there. Who is he putting on a show for now?"

Gretchen hurled the folder in my face. "Sign it. Dwight's situation can't wait. The patient's family has already taken the matter to the health commission."

The corner of the folder scraped against my cheek, leaving a streak of blood behind.

"Don't force my hand, Dustin. Your mother's ashes are still sitting at the funeral home!"

I looked up in disbelief, and my lips trembled. "You… promised you'd give Mom a proper burial. You promised me!"

Guilt flashed in her eyes for only a split second before Dwight interjected. "Dustin, you have no idea how busy and exhausted Greta has been in the last three years. While you were hiding in prison and living the easy life, you never once considered everything she did for you."

Me? Living the easy life? For three years—more than a thousand days and nights—I had been beaten bloody every single day by a group of men who had been instructed to "take special care" of me. To this day, there wasn't a single part of my body that wasn't scarred and battered.

How did he even have the nerve to say I had been living the easy life? Perhaps the mockery on my face had been too obvious because her patience finally ran thin. "Dustin, I'm asking you one last time—are you going to sign this or not?"