Page 48 of Rest In Peace

Sarah's fingertips traced the date, her pulse quickening. The entry was dated just after Victoria's third birthday, a time stamped in her memory by relentless hospital visits and the sterile scent of antiseptic that seemed to cling to their clothes long after they returned home.

"Patient in remission," the words leaped from the page, stark against the backdrop of clinical jargon. Her breath hitched, eyes darting over the subsequent lines, seeking an anchor in the sea of medical terminology. That term had never been uttered by any of the doctors or Steven.

"Remission…" she muttered, the syllables tasting foreign on her tongue.

This entry spoke of something spontaneous, a sudden shift in the tide of Victoria's illness that should have sparked hope and been celebrated with more than just a clinical note buried within a forgotten journal.

Sarah's gaze flickered to the author of the note, a doctor whose name was unfamiliar, one that Steven had never mentioned. A chill ran down her spine as she realized the gravity of the omission.

"Steven, what didn't you tell me?" Her voice was a whisper lost in the silence of the room. The shadows seemed to press closer, and Sarah could feel the weight of deception heavy in the air. She closed the journal slowly, the soft thud of the cover marking the end of one chapter and the ominous beginning of another.

"Victoria," she breathed, the name a vow. The revelation was a crack in the foundation of their life, a single strand unraveling with the potential to undo everything they knew.

Sarah's hand trembled as she held the journal in front of her, eyes darting back and forth across the name, her mind twirling. Her pulse hammered in her ears, a cacophony that drowned out the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. The room seemed to tilt, reality warping around the edges as her mind struggled to align these new pieces with the puzzle of Victoria's illness.

"Impossible," she murmured, tracing the name on the front with a shaky finger. Then she opened it and read it again. The entry blurred as fear glazed her vision, thick and suffocating.

She reached for the wine glass, its stem cool beneath her fingertips. She took a sip, the rich red swirling down her throat like liquid fire, stinging and acrid. It provided no comfort, only a momentary distraction from the spiral of confusion.

"Steven, what is this?" she said to the empty room, the question hanging heavy in the air. Each syllable was laced with betrayal, the name she had whispered countless times with love now tainted with suspicion.

The wine failed to soothe the raw edges of her thoughts, each one a razor slicing through the fabric of trust she had woven around her husband. Victoria's face, so often bright with a smile despite the pain, haunted the corners of Sarah's vision, a silent plea for the truth.

"Answers," she whispered, setting the glass down with care. "I need answers."

The bottle tilted, a steady stream of crimson flowing into the waiting glass. Sarah watched the liquid dance and shimmer under the lamp's glow, her hand unsteady. The scent of oak and berries mingled with the dust motes that floated lazily in the half-light.

"Enough," she muttered, cutting off the pour. Her voice was a stranger's—hard and resolute. The wine lapped at the rim, a hair's breadth from spilling over.

Her gaze fixed on the glass, but she saw Victoria's face instead, her small frame shadowed by years of illness and unanswered questions. The journal lay open beside her, accusing and mocking. It promised answers that only birthed more secrets.

"Steven," she said, the name now a splinter under her skin. The taste of betrayal soured on her tongue. Why hadn’t he spoken of this?

She lifted the bottle again, this time foregoing the glass altogether, her lips meeting the cold glass edge. The wine flowed freely, too freely, a river seeking escape. It was warmth and numbness, a fleeting sanctuary from the storm of emotions that raged within her chest.

"Answers," she repeated, words slurred. "I deserve answers."

The final drops fell, a hollow echo as they hit the bottom of the empty bottle. She placed it on the table with a dull thud, its weight mirroring her own heavy heart.

"I have to confront him," she told herself, her thoughts sharpening to a point. Victoria's eyes, wide and trusting, seared into her memory. "For her."

Fear and anxiety hit her hard. How deep did the deception go? What would it cost to unravel it?

"Tomorrow," she breathed, the promise a whisper in the silence. "Tomorrow, we face this."

Her hands clenched into fists, a warrior preparing for battle, even as her pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against her temples. The truth waited, sinister and elusive, just beyond the horizon, and Sarah knew she had no choice but to chase it down.

Sarah's fingers trembled as they relinquished their grip on the empty wine bottle. With a heavy sigh, she pushed it aside, its hollow sound against the wooden table echoing the emptiness she felt inside. The room was still; the only movement was the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she inhaled deeply, trying to steady herself.

Her mind, once foggy with alcohol, was now sharpened to an agonizing clarity. She had to speak with Steven; there was no turning back from what she had uncovered. But the thought of confronting him twisted her stomach into knots. Would he deny everything? Accuse her of overreacting? The possibilities spun around her head like vultures circling their prey.

"Get it together, Sarah," she muttered, her voice barely audible. Her hands clasped together, seeking stability in one another as if holding herself together by sheer force of will.

She rose unsteadily to her feet, each step toward the kitchen heavy with dread. Reaching the countertop, she paused, staring at the array of bottles. Just one more, she convinced herself… to take the edge off.

Pulling the cork from a new bottle with a practiced motion, she didn’t bother with a glass this time. The liquid crimson, darker than blood, sloshed into her mouth, coating her tongue with its acrid sweetness. She drank, each gulp a futile attempt to drown the rising tide of questions that threatened to consume her.

The room began to spin, the edges of her vision blurring as the wine took hold. Doubts swirled in her mind, intermingling with images of Victoria’s pale face, Steven's evasive eyes, and the words from the medical journal that had set her world tilting.

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