It's always her fault. Always the scapegoat. Never Raymond’s. She had bitten her tongue until she nearly drew blood, refusing to fight back in the middle of the hospital corridor. She hated them, every last one of them. But most of all, she hated the ghost of Cassie that still haunted Raymond’s every breath. She had let them tear into her as Raymond lay unconscious, saying nothing, defending nothing. She had waited. Waited for him to wake, to at least explain, to at least acknowledge her. But now, three days later, here he was, scrolling through his phone like a sulking child, smirking at gossip about the ex-wife he had ruined. Now, watching him grin faintly at his phone screen, her chest burned. “What are you smiling at?” she snapped. But Raymond ignored her. “Raymond,” she hissed, “answer me!” Still nothing. His smirk deepened as if mocking her very existence. Her nails dug into her palms. What a waste of a man! "Raymond," she said tightly, "are you even listening to me?
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