It Doesn’t Matter Anymore novel Chapter 19

Chapter 19

One year later.

A closed psychiatric center in the suburbs of San Antonio.

This was a ward dedicated to severe psychiatric patients, where the air was filled with the smell of disinfectant and the mustiness of a place that had not seen sunlight for years.

Sylvia curled up in a corner behind the iron bars, wearing an oversized blue-and-white striped hospital gown. Her hair was unevenly cut, and her face was smeared with dirt from who knew where.

Her eyes were vacant, and she clutched half a leftover steamed bun in her hand, muttering incessantly under her breath: “Grey… save me….. they took my food… I am Colonel Debeaux’s wife… I am Mrs. Debeaux…”

An impatient orderly passing by knocked on the iron bars and said, “What are you shouting about! Colonel Debeaux’s wife? That lover of yours already dumped you here and doesn’t care! Even your medical bills were paid by that Mr. Langely, who said he was doing a ‘good deed’ and wanted you to ‘live a long life’ here!”

A few deranged patients nearby rushed over, snatched the bun from her hand, and pushed her to the ground, letting out shrill, bizarre laughter.

Sylvia no longer resisted. Like a broken doll, she curled into a ball, her empty gaze fixed on the patch of sky beyond the small iron window.

Meanwhile, in an old mansion somewhere in San Antonio.

The Debeaux family had long since moved out of the military district compound. Because of Greyson’s scandal and that shocking leap, the Debeaux family lost all their dignity. Greyson’s grandfather died of a cerebral hemorrhage from the anger, and Greyson’s father, Arthur Debeaux, was forced to retire early, moving the whole family to this ancestral property.

Under the old locust tree in the yard, Greyson sat in a wheelchair.

His left pant leg hung empty-after jumping from the observation deck, though his life was spared, his left leg suffered a comminuted fracture and severe infection, ultimately leading to amputation.

He clutched a beige cashmere coat tightly in his arms.

It was the one Allison had left behind-the coat he had taken off to cover her legs in the car that day, which she refused and left behind.

He was so thin that his skin clung to his bones, his eyes clouded, sometimes lucid, sometimes deranged.

When he was clear-headed, he would hold that coat, staring blankly at the gate, as if the gentle figure would walk in with a shopping basket the next second, smiling and calling him “darling.”

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