The sickening, metallic snap silenced the room. The solid stainless-steel rail—a full inch in diameter—had been sheared clean off the bed frame by my bare hands. The jagged edge of the pipe instantly filleted my palm.
The nurses restraining me gasped, recoiling in sheer horror. In that split second of freedom, I lunged upward. I didn’t reach for Preston. I reached for the IV line buried in the crook of my left arm. With a brutal, tearing yank, I ripped the catheter straight out of my own vein.
Warm blood sprayed across the pristine sterile drapes, splashing a furious crimson pattern across Preston’s pale blue chest.
His pupils shrank to pinpricks. He stared at my mangled hand and the dangling, dripping IV line for two agonizing seconds. Then, his shock was buried by sneering contempt.
“What are you trying to prove? That you’re the Incredible Hulk? If you put this energy into pushing instead of destroying hospital property, the child would be here.” He scoffed. “Keep pushing.”
He initiated a violent manual extraction that ripped straight through to my soul. A weak, gurgling cry finally pierced the suffocating air.
“It’s… a boy,” a nurse panted. But her relief instantly warped into sheer panic. “Dr. Pierce, maternal hemorrhage! Uterine atony! She’s rupturing! Pressure is dropping off a cliff!”
A torrential geyser of bright red blood cascaded from my body, flooding the floor, painting my entire world crimson. The EKG monitor shrieked its continuous, ear-piercing flatline alarm. I lay perfectly still in the warm lake of my own blood, coldly observing Preston’s spine snap rigid. His hands, soaked in my life force, twitched chaotically. He frantically began packing gauze, his arrogant composure shattering.
