The vase shattered against the wall beside Peter's bed.
Porcelain exploded outward in a violent spray, shards skidding across the infirmary floor.
"YOU FAT PIECE OF SHIT!!! THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!!!"
Jane's scream ripped through the room, raw and animal.
Peter didn't stir.
He lay motionless beneath thin white sheets, chest rising and falling in slow, mechanical rhythm — blissfully unaware of the chaos detonating inches from his head.
Jane lunged toward him.
Josephine caught her just in time, fingers locking around her wrists before another object could be hurled.
"Jane—Jane, please," Josephine pleaded, struggling to keep her steady. "Getting angry at your husband won't solve anything. He had nothing to do with this."
Jane fought her grip for a moment longer.
Then something in her broke.
Her knees hit the floor.
The sound was softer than the vase breaking. Somehow worse.
