Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 163: Love Is Discipline, Violence Made of Tears

Chapter 163: Chapter 163: Love Is Discipline, Violence Made of Tears

Sinclair.

Is it Damian Sinclair?

Eleanor turned her head to look and listen. The nurse drew the curtain, lifted the blanket to check her lower body, and the doctor behind the curtain asked, "Do you still feel any pain in your lower abdomen? Cramping pain, dragging pain?"

Eleanor weakly clenched the bedsheet, "Cramping pain."

The nurse finished the examination, pulled back the curtain, and reported to the doctor, "The amount of bleeding is normal."

The doctor nodded, comforting Eleanor, "Postoperative mild cramping pain is a normal reaction to uterine contractions. The amount of bleeding is normal, and the ultrasound images are normal too. The pain will gradually disappear over time. If there are no complications, you will be discharged soon."

The light from the corridor was all that was left through the crack of the door, with no shadow of Cillian Grant or Damon Sharp.

Eleanor withdrew her gaze, looked at the doctor, and asked, "I feel weak in my limbs. How long might it take to recover?"

The doctor replied, "The dose of sedative we gave you wasn’t large, usually it takes two or three hours. You’re mainly too physically weak, and the side effects of the antenatal injections used earlier are too severe, causing significant damage to your body."

Eleanor again glanced at the entrance, empty and silent, not even a shadow on the floor.

After the doctor left, she called the nurse, "May I borrow your phone?"

The nurse refused, "Sorry, our hospital has a policy that during working hours, our phones are kept at the nurses’ station."

Eleanor didn’t understand the foreign medical industry, but as for domestic, Elaine White said that their medical staff carries their phones 24/7 and never turns them off.

Going to the toilet without paper is possible, but never without their phone.

The medication rendered her powerless, yet the vigilance was this high. Eleanor closed her eyes.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor, hollow and sluggish, as the door closed by the doctor slowly opened.

Eleanor remained silent.

The nurse hesitated at the bedside. First, there was a big shot who booked an entire floor, then a wealthy person from Therasia requested a dedicated team of doctors and nurses.

Also afraid of offending her, she dryly patched things up, "Post-surgery patients need plenty of rest to avoid strain. If there’s anything urgent, perhaps your husband can handle it for you."

Eleanor suddenly opened her eyes, looking past the nurse and focusing on the entrance, "I don’t have a husband, only a demon."

The nurse was shocked, instinctively turning to check the doorway.

Under the light, a man held the door handle, wearing a mask, standing tall, exuding dignity.

The nurse had seen his lung X-rays, showing high-density shadows on both lungs with unclear borders, indicating severe pneumonia, along with symptoms of coughing up blood and fainting.

Pathologically, he needed hospitalization and bed rest more than the female patient in the bed.

He refused, confirmed that bacterial pneumonia isn’t contagious, wore a mask, and stayed by the female patient’s side constantly.

This disregard for one’s health isn’t advocated in healthcare, but his persistent concern for the female patient’s anxious plight was evident.

It really had nothing to do with violence or persecution.

Cillian Grant did not trouble the nurse and asked her to leave before sitting by the bed, "Who do you want to contact?"

Eleanor turned her head away, coldly sneering.

Cillian Grant stared at her, focusing on her ears peeking through her dark hair, with a piercing porcelain-white clarity, "Is it Damian Sinclair? Elaine White? Or that snakehead called Mr. Ghost?" 𝑓𝘳𝑒𝑒𝓌𝘦𝘣𝘯ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝑚

Eleanor hated to the extreme.

She was desperate to know Mr. Ghost’s news, but Cillian Grant’s earlier silence was already an answer.

If he didn’t want to say something, if he avoided saying something, no one could extract it from him.

But it didn’t matter.

There was still Damian Sinclair; he might not be able to save her, but he could surely save Mr. Ghost.

"Do you think you’ve won?" She gazed at the bed’s railing, where the plastic encased steel bars like a cage.

"I’ve struggled for four years, unable to escape your grasp. No matter how madly I hate you, it can’t overcome a drug that makes me powerless, can’t overcome your severing all contact with the outside world, leaving me to lie here, at your mercy."

Her tone was flat, without hysteria, without deep-seated hatred, her small frame sunken into the white bedding, exhausted and emaciated, utterly defeated.

Cillian Grant felt an indescribable pain in his chest and lungs, like electrocution, like being burned, like all means of causing excruciating pain, knowing full well that pneumonia wasn’t the cause, but rather a different kind of terminal illness.

"I didn’t—"

He suddenly gasped in horror, stood up, and turned Eleanor’s face; her jaw was clenched, tense like iron, yet blood constantly trickled from the corner of her mouth, staining the pillow on one side with a palm-sized blot of bright red.

Cillian Grant clutched her jawbone, exerting full force, but despite the pain, she didn’t open her mouth, her bloodshot eyes staring unwaveringly at him.

Cillian Grant, panic-stricken, nearly collapsed onto the bed, grabbing her lips and teeth with both hands.

Eleanor bit down with all her might.

The excruciatingly sharp pain of her tongue tearing almost caused her to black out, faintly hearing the bed alarm ring, and a finger reaching into her mouth.

Her accumulated strength drained again; her lips and teeth were pried open, foul liquid pouring large gulps down her throat, bloody froth choking her nasal cavity, as darkness engulfed from all sides...

The hospital’s operating room typically stands alone on a separate floor, not intermingled with inpatient wards.

Medical staff hurriedly surrounded the trolley, heading to the third-floor operating department. Cillian Grant was stopped by the gas door in the corridor, with Damon Sharp supporting him with all his strength, propping his body up.

"She never intended to commit suicide—"

Cillian Grant, stricken with despair, showed none of his former icy composure, his shirt disheveled, with sleeves, and a large crimson stain at the chest, setting off his bloodless face.

Damon Sharp, equally startled, took a few seconds to recover his voice and comfort him, "Miss Eleanor just lost her child and couldn’t accept it for the moment. When she wakes, ensure you explain everything; she’ll understand your sacrifices over the years, and eventually pull through."

This was Connor Sullivan’s exact original remark in private, though he didn’t quite agree, it served as comfort now.

Cillian Grant, watching the operating room’s light on the sealed gas door, the glaring red light transformed into a vivid, all-encompassing flood of blood.

Submerging his hands, his chest...

Turning into a heavy, suffocating swamp.

"My sacrifices..." He stood there rigidly, each word a murmur, "She knows, right under her nose..."

Such feeble words, never before had Cillian Grant revealed, nor Connor Sullivan express any sentiment, and Damon Sharp remained silently mute.

In mathematics, there’s a term for summation and another for no solution.

Up to this day, the two of them—Connor Sullivan reckoned there could be a summation, while he believed it was unsolvable.

Connor Sullivan privately admired Cillian Grant, debating with him.

"Love is inherently possessive, suffocating embraces, stifling kisses, a tangled mess that’s never clear, love is bloodied and embedded into the heart to be beautiful."

"Whether Miss Eleanor comes around to it or not, it’s still him. Additionally, no one but him can give this transcendently all-consuming love, which shuns the world for her; no second person can offer it, who could rival a love that equates to faith? Can you? She’ll come around eventually."

Damon Sharp almost found himself convinced.

But today, with Eleanor biting her tongue to end it all, he’s uncertain again.

Many things appear one way to outsiders, but only personal experience reveals the truth.

There’s a line that says, for her, love is discipline, tears formed into violence.

Damon Sharp felt that even if Eleanor acknowledged Cillian Grant’s love, it would be with such feelings.

Moreover, Eleanor now doesn’t even recognize his love at all.