Chapter 2 - The Emergency Room and the Evidence
The sterile fluorescent lights of the Charleston General Hospital emergency room hummed overhead like an angry hornet’s nest.
I sat upright on the examination table, my legs dangling over the edge, shivering violently despite the warm blankets the nurses had piled around my shoulders. Every breath felt like inhaling hot embers. My face was caked in sterile saline gauze and thick, cooling burn cream, but beneath the bandages, the flesh felt as though it was melting off my skull.
Dr. Patel, an emergency physician with silver-streaked hair and tired, kind eyes, stood over me with a clipboard, his expression grim. He had spent the last twenty minutes flushing my skin, taking scrapings, and running preliminary diagnostic panels.
"Your vital signs are stabilizing, Maya, but the local tissue damage is severe," Dr. Patel said, his voice measured and professional. He clicked his pen open and shut. "Standard red wine, even high-acidic varieties like a heavy Cabernet or Zinfandel, will stain skin, sting an open cut, and irritate eyes. It will not cause second-degree chemical burns, localized tissue necrosis, and immediate blistering within thirty seconds of contact."
I stared straight ahead at the stainless-steel cabinets across the room, my voice muffled through the gauze. "I told you. It felt like an iron."
"It acts like one," Dr. Patel agreed, turning a page on his clipboard. "We’ve taken swab samples of the residue left on your skin and your dress. I’ve already ordered a comprehensive toxicology screen and a chemical analysis through the state forensics lab. Whatever was in that glass, it was heavily adulterated. We’re looking at a strong industrial solvent or a caustic chemical base mixed with alcohol to mask the smell."
The door to trauma bay four clicked open, and Officer Vance, a county sheriff’s deputy assigned to the hospital beat, stepped inside. He tipped his hat respectfully to Dr. Patel before turning his attention to me.
"Ms. Mitchell? I’m Deputy Vance," he said, holding a small notepad in one hand and a heavy-duty evidence bag in the other. Inside the clear plastic bag sat my ruined pale blue dress, neatly folded, along with a stack of crimson-stained linen napkins handed over by my cousin Rachel. "The front desk at the hospital notified us given the nature of the injuries and the domestic circumstances reported by your family. Can you tell me what happened tonight?"
I recounted the events of the reception—the tension, Emily’s bitter accusations, the glass of wine flying through the air, and the immediate, agonizing explosion of pain across my face and neck.
As I spoke, the deputy wrote furiously. When I mentioned Emily’s exact words—“You’ll remember this day for the rest of your life!”—his pen stopped moving. He looked up, his brow furrowed.
"She said that right before she threw it?" Deputy Vance asked.
"Yes," I rasped. "Everyone heard her. My cousin Rachel was standing right beside me. My mother saw the whole thing from the dance floor."
"And you believe she knew what was in the glass?"
"I don't know if she knew the exact chemical composition," I said, my voice hardening despite the pain. "But she knew it wasn't wine. Nobody accidentally splashes a glass of industrial-grade caustic agent during a toast. She picked that specific glass off the tray. She targeted me."
The deputy nodded slowly, slipping his pen back into his breast pocket. He stepped forward and placed the evidence bag on the metal rolling tray beside my bed.
"Well, Ms. Mitchell, your family drama just escalated into a criminal investigation," Deputy Vance said quietly. "Assault with a chemical agent is a felony charge in South Carolina. Classifiable as aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, carrying up to twenty years depending on the extent of permanent disfigurement."
Twenty years.
The number hung in the sterile air of the ER room. My sister, the aspiring actress, the golden child of the family, the bride in the twenty-thousand-dollar Vera Wang gown—facing a prison cell over her petty, psychotic jealousy.
"What happens next?" I asked.
"We wait for the lab results from the dress and your skin scrapings," Deputy Vance said, tipping his hat again. "Once toxicology confirms what substance was used, we secure an arrest warrant. Given that it’s a high-profile wedding at a downtown estate, we’ll move fast to prevent any tampering with evidence at the venue or her primary residence. Get some rest, Ms. Mitchell. You're going to need your strength."
He left the room, the door swinging shut with a soft pneumatic hiss.
I lay back against the scratchy hospital pillow, the cooling cream on my face doing little to soothe the rage burning inside my chest. For thirty years, I had absorbed Emily’s abuse, excused her tantrums, and played the dutiful, suffering older sister because my parents begged me to keep the peace.
Not anymore.
The glass wasn't just an attack on my skin. It was an attempted maiming. And as I stared up at the buzzing fluorescent lights, I made a silent vow: I wasn't going to sweep this under the rug for the sake of family harmony.
May you like
Emily wanted me to remember her wedding day for the rest of my life?
I was going to make sure she spent the rest of hers behind bars.
