They Tried to Kill Me Quietly, Now I’m Coming Back Loud

The Breaking Point

Chapter 1:

The fluorescent lights of Edinberton Hospital buzzed overhead, casting a sickly pallor over the crowded waiting room. Esteban Rodriguez leaned heavily against the grimy wall, his vision swimming as another wave of dizziness crashed over him. The line stretched endlessly before him—at least thirty people deep, maybe more. He couldn't focus long enough to count.

His hands trembled violently as he fumbled for his phone, nearly dropping it twice before managing to open his messages. The screen blurred, doubled, then merged back into focus. Cold sweat trickled down his spine, soaking through his already damp shirt.

Still at the hospital. Packed today. Might be late. Already washed and cut the vegetables for you to cook. Love you.

He hit send and slumped further against the wall, closing his eyes against the relentless spinning of the room. Twenty-five years old, and his body was destroying itself from the inside out. No diagnosis. No cure. Just an endless parade of tests, sympathetic looks, and mounting medical bills that devoured their savings like a ravenous beast.

His phone rang, the shrill tone making him flinch. Miranda. A flicker of hope sparked in his chest—maybe she'd say something encouraging, tell him to hang in there, that they'd figure this out together.

"Hey, honey," he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper.

"How much longer are you going to keep this up, Esteban?" Miranda's voice cut through the line like a blade, cold and sharp. No greeting. No warmth.

He blinked, confused. "What do you mean? I'm just waiting to see—"

"You know exactly what I mean. We're broke. Completely broke. Do you understand that? Our savings are gone. Every last penny we worked for, just gone."

Esteban's throat tightened. "I know, but if we can just find out what's wrong—"

"The doctor already told me," she interrupted, her tone dripping with contempt. "He told me the likelihood of curing whatever you have is extremely low. Extremely. Low. Do you know what that means? It means we're throwing money into a bottomless pit for nothing."

"Miranda, please—" His voice cracked, tears burning behind his eyelids.

"Please what? Please drain us completely? Please make us homeless? You can't even work anymore, Esteban. No income. No savings. Just endless hospital bills for a disease nobody can even name." She paused, and he could hear her breathing heavily on the other end. "I don't want to lose everything. I don't want to end up on the streets because you refuse to face reality."

Each word felt like a physical blow, crushing what little hope remained in his chest. The other patients in line were starting to stare, their conversations dropping to whispers as they watched him crumble.

"How many hospitals have you been to now?" Miranda continued, her voice rising. "Five? Six? If they couldn't help you at the first three, what makes you think this one will be any different? You're pouring money into a hole that has no bottom, and you're too selfish to see what you're doing to me."

"I'm not trying to be selfish," Esteban choked out, his vision blurring with tears. "I just want to live—"

"Well, wanting doesn't pay the bills, does it? And when you're gone, what then? You want me to suffer? You want me to be left with nothing but debt and memories of watching you die slowly? Is that what you want for me?"

The cruelty in her words stole his breath. This was his wife. The woman he'd married two years ago, who'd promised to stand by him in sickness and health. Now she sounded like a stranger tallying losses on a balance sheet.

"I'll... I'll come home," he whispered, his strength evaporating like morning mist. "I'll stop the treatment."

"Good. Finally, some sense." The relief in her voice was palpable, as if he'd just agreed to cancel an expensive vacation rather than give up on his own life. "Come home. We need to talk about what comes next."

She hung up without saying goodbye.

Esteban's legs buckled, and he slid down the wall until he was sitting on the dirty floor, the phone slipping from his trembling fingers. The dam broke, and sobs tore through his chest, raw and anguished.

"I don't want to die," he gasped between hiccupping breaths, his face buried in his shaking hands. "God, I don't want to die. I'm only twenty-five. I don't even have a kid yet. Why? Why is this happening to me?"

An elderly woman in line stepped forward, her eyes soft with sympathy. "Son, are you—"

"I'm fine," he croaked, though they both knew it was a lie. He could feel dozens of eyes on him—patients, nurses, family members—all watching his breakdown with varying degrees of pity. The weight of their stares only made him cry harder.

After what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, Esteban dragged himself to his feet. His legs felt like water, barely able to support his weight as he stumbled toward the exit. The automatic doors whooshed open, and the afternoon sun hit him like a physical force, momentarily blinding him.

His bike was chained up near the entrance, but one look at it told him he'd never make it home that way. He could barely walk, let alone pedal. The bus stop was across the street, and he shuffled toward it like a man three times his age, each step an effort of will.

The bus arrived within minutes, its brakes hissing as it pulled to a stop. Esteban hauled himself up the steps, fumbled for his card, and collapsed into the nearest seat. The other passengers gave him a wide berth, probably afraid whatever he had might be contagious.

Through the grimy window, the city scrolled past in a blur of buildings and traffic. Esteban rested his head against the cool glass, trying to process what had just happened. His wife had essentially told him to give up and die. The woman he loved had calculated his worth and found him wanting.

The bus lurched to a stop at a red light, and Esteban's unfocused gaze drifted across the street. His heart stopped.

There, walking into the Grand Plaza Hotel with confident strides, was Miranda.

No. It couldn't be. He was sick, hallucinating maybe. The medication made him see things sometimes. But the woman had Miranda's hair, her build, even that particular way she walked with her shoulders back and her phone clutched in her left hand.

The bus started moving again, but Esteban was already on his feet, stumbling toward the door. "Wait! I need to get off!"

"Sir, the next stop is—"

"Now! Please!" The desperation in his voice must have convinced the driver because the bus jerked to a halt. Esteban practically fell down the steps, catching himself on the handrail at the last second.

His hands were shaking worse than ever as he pulled out his phone and dialed Miranda's number. It rang. And rang. And rang. Finally, just before it would have gone to voicemail, she answered.

"What?" Her voice was breathless, slightly strained.

"Hey, where are you?" Esteban tried to keep his voice casual, even as his heart hammered against his ribs.

A pause. Too long. "At work. Where else would I be?"

"Right, of course. I just—are you busy?"

"Extremely busy, actually. Esteban, I told you to rest after leaving the hospital. Just go home. I'll see you tonight." Another pause, shorter this time. "I have to go."

The line went dead.

Esteban stared at his phone, his hand trembling so badly he nearly dropped it. She'd lied. She'd looked him in the eye—or voice, rather—and lied without hesitation. His Miranda, who'd once told him she could never lie to him, had just done exactly that.

You're being paranoid, he told himself. Sick. Stressed. That wasn't her. It just looked like her.

But his feet were already moving toward the hotel entrance, drawn by some terrible gravity he couldn't resist. The Grand Plaza was upscale, expensive—not the kind of place Miranda could afford on her administrative assistant salary, especially not now that they were supposedly broke.

The lobby was all marble and gold fixtures, so pristine it made Esteban acutely aware of his sweat-stained shirt and unsteady gait. The receptionist glanced at him with barely concealed disdain, but he ignored her and headed straight for the elevators.

His finger hovered over the call button. He could still turn around. Go home. Pretend he'd seen nothing. But the image of Miranda walking into this hotel in the middle of a workday, right after telling him they were broke, right after demanding he give up on treatment...

He pressed the button.

The elevator was empty, its mirrored walls reflecting back a ghost of a man—pale, gaunt, with dark circles under bloodshot eyes. Esteban watched himself as the floors ticked upward. The elevator slowed, then stopped.

Eighth floor.

The doors slid open with a soft chime, and Esteban stepped out into a carpeted hallway lined with identical doors. For a moment, he heard nothing but the pounding of his own heart. Then, drifting from somewhere down the hall, came the unmistakable sound of a woman's laugh—soft, intimate, followed by the low rumble of a man's voice.

The laugh he'd know anywhere.

Miranda.