The Coldness of Control

Charlotte

The first night in the hospital was a mix of pain and isolation. The machines that monitored the twins' heartbeats and contractions were my only companions, their constant beeps a cruel reminder that my situation was precarious. I felt like a prisoner in a sterilized cell, surrounded by people who saw me only as a means to an end.

The next morning, Marta arrived early, bringing with her the same atmosphere of rigidity and control that permeated the mansion. She entered the room, her gaze immediately focused on the monitors, completely ignoring my presence. It was as if I had become invisible, a mere extension of the machines around me.

"How are the babies?" was her first question to the doctor, who had followed her into the room.

The doctor began explaining that the contractions had lessened overnight but that the risk was still high. Marta listened attentively, but there was no sign of relief on her face. To her, this wasn't a victory, just another obstacle to overcome.

As the doctor spoke, Richard entered the room, his expression cold and impassive. He, too, addressed the doctor directly, ignoring my existence entirely. "Is there anything we need to adjust?" he asked, his tone cutting.

The doctor assured him that they were doing everything they could, but Richard seemed unsatisfied. He approached the monitor, scrutinizing the numbers with the same intensity he reserved for business matters. "Make sure nothing gets out of control," he ordered, without so much as a glance in my direction.

The doctor nodded and left the room, leaving me alone with Richard and Marta. I could feel the weight of their judgment, the disappointment that I wasn't living up to their expectations. To them, I was no longer a person with needs or emotions; I was just a vessel carrying something far more valuable.

"You need to understand, Charlotte," Richard finally said, addressing me for the first time. But instead of showing any concern, his voice was cold and disdainful. "The health of the twins is the priority. We can't afford any mistakes or distractions."

Each word was a blade, cutting away any semblance of dignity I was trying to hold on to. I wanted to respond, to scream that I mattered too, that my pain and fear were real, but I knew it would be pointless. Richard had made it clear that, to him, I was nothing more than a tool, a means to an end.

"We need you to be strong, Charlotte," Marta added, with the same coldness. "This is not the time for weakness. Everything depends on you."

Those words, which should have been encouraging, only served to push me further into despair. I was alone, and the only thing that mattered to them was that I followed orders, that I kept the babies safe until the end. My mental health, my emotional well-being, were secondary, if they mattered at all.

The following days blurred into a routine of tests, medications, and cold visits from Richard and Marta. They appeared daily, but never to see me—only to check on the babies. I had become invisible to them, a means to secure the family's future, nothing more.

Every time Richard entered the room, the tension rose. His presence, which once provoked fear and uncertainty in me, now brought a sense of resignation. I knew what to expect from him: orders, demands, and nothing more. He never asked how I was, never cared about what I felt. The only thing that mattered was the twins, and the fact that my body was still holding them.

Marta, always by Richard's side, maintained the same controlling stance. She watched every detail, ensuring I made no mistakes, that I remained obedient and submissive. There was no room for weakness, as she always reminded me. I needed to be strong, not for myself, but for the babies.

That night, after yet another cold and distant visit from Richard, I was left alone in the room, listening to the sound of the monitors. The hospital, which should have been a place of healing, felt more like a prison, where my worth was measured only by my performance as a mother-to-be.

I stared at the ceiling, trying to find some hope, something to keep me going. But the reality was crushing. I was alone, at the mercy of people who didn't care about me, only about what I could provide. And what I could provide were the twins. Nothing more.

The tears came again, silently, rolling down my face as I sank into the bed. The struggle to maintain my sanity, to hold on to some shred of dignity, was becoming harder every day. I knew I needed to be strong, not just for the babies, but for myself. But with each visit, each cold look from Richard and Marta, that strength seemed to slip away.

That night, I made a decision. I couldn't continue like this; I couldn't let them destroy me completely. I needed to find a way to resist, to fight for myself, even if it meant challenging the little strength I had left.

I would close my eyes and try to rest, knowing that the next day would bring more of the same. But deep inside, a small flame of determination began to grow. I would not be just a means to an end. I was still someone, and I would find a way to remind myself of that, even if Richard and Marta did everything they could to make me forget.