Laura, once seemingly benign, revealed her true nature in the most tragic way. The day she accidentally dropped my three-month-old son from the building marked the beginning of my descent into despair. Jason, ever placid, dismissed it as a mere accident. Pregnant with our second child, I hesitated when Laura offered to accompany me for my prenatal check-ups. Her seemingly kind gesture masked a deep-seated disdain, a warning I failed to heed. The day of the traffic accident was a cruel twist of fate. I vividly remember the world spinning as I felt my life—and my unborn child’s—slip away. In those final moments, I floated above the chaos and heard Laura’s cruel taunt: “Bitch, you’re good for nothing by being alive!” The reality that followed was devastating. Jason, using the inheritance meant for my family, remarried, leaving me with the gut-wrenching realization that my son’s death had been a deliberate act of murder orchestrated by Laura. As my spirit grappled with this truth, I was abruptly pulled back through a disorienting whirlpool of time. When I opened my eyes again, I found myself at the very moment Laura had offered to accompany me for my prenatal check-up. —— “Selina, are you ready to go? Jefferson scheduled an early appointment with the best gynecologist. We can’t be late!” Laura’s voice crackled with anxious urgency as she paced back and forth at the door, her eyes darting with a barely concealed impatience. I looked down at my slightly bulging belly, a tangible reminder of the life growing inside me. Suddenly, an overwhelming wave of emotion crashed over me, and I burst into tears. “My baby is still there. Could it be a dream?” I choked on my sobs, my mind reeling with the nightmare of my daughter’s fall from the building, her tiny body reduced to a horrifying mess. Laura’s sudden offer to take me to a private hospital where Jefferson worked, and her insistence on making an appointment with the best gynecologist, struck me as eerily convenient. Her enthusiasm seemed almost too polished, too rehearsed. A part of me felt uneasy, sensing an undercurrent of deception beneath her veneer of concern. The memory of Laura’s cruel taunt, “Bitch, you’re good for nothing by being alive!” echoed in my mind, a chilling reminder of the treachery I had uncovered. The stillbirth of my first child had cast a shadow over my heart, leaving me perpetually uneasy. The wound never fully healed, a constant ache beneath the surface. As my second pregnancy progressed, a faint glimmer of hope began to emerge. Jason had explained that Laura, devastated by the tragic accident, had suffered a severe emotional and physical breakdown when she lost consciousness while holding our son. Her injuries and the weight of her grief had kept her bedridden for a long, arduous recovery. Despite her own suffering, Laura’s apparent joy at the news of my second pregnancy seemed boundless. Her enthusiasm was almost unsettling in its intensity. She threw herself into finding the best possible care for me, an effort that grew more fervent with each passing day. Her attempts to secure a top-notch gynecologist were relentless. She seemed almost obsessed with ensuring that every detail of my prenatal care was perfect. When she finally managed to secure an appointment with the best gynecologist in town, her elation was palpable. Jason’s words echoed with a bitter irony that cut through my grief. “Laura’s trying to make up for her previous mistakes,” he had said, as though that were supposed to somehow absolve the pain she had caused. The death of our son had shattered me in ways I could scarcely articulate. It was an unbearable ache, a constant, throbbing void where joy once lived. Yet, even in my profound sorrow, I couldn’t forsake the tiny life growing within me, nestled deep in my belly. waited in the sterile, unfeeling lobby, each tick of the clock magnifying my anxiety. A nagging sense of unease began to prick at my consciousness, and I glanced around, my gaze falling upon Laura. She was standing just outside, her posture tense, her phone clutched tightly in her hand. She seemed engrossed in something on the screen, her expression a mix of concentration and secrecy. Before I could ponder it further, a sudden, jarring noise shattered the relative calm. A car skidded into view, its tires screeching against the pavement. My heart lurched as I saw it careening toward our parked car with an alarming speed. The impact was deafening—metal crumpling, glass shattering, and the force of the collision rippling through the air like a shockwave. I felt a violent jolt, my body thrown forward as if caught in a tempest. My head struck the edge of the car’s interior with a brutal force, the pain exploding in a blinding, searing burst. Everything seemed to spiral out of control; the world spun with dizzying speed as the driver of the offending vehicle tried to regain control, his car veering wildly. The chaotic scene unfolded in slow motion, each moment dragging out with agonizing clarity. The next thing I knew, darkness consumed me. My body went limp, and the cacophony of the accident faded into an eerie, hollow silence. I was floating, adrift in a sea of unconsciousness, the pain and fear dissolving into a disorienting abyss. In the brief moments of clarity I had before losing consciousness, I caught a fleeting glimpse of Laura’s horrified face she remained rooted to the spot, her eyes wide and unblinking, her breathing shallow and erratic. The gravity of the moment seemed to weigh heavily upon her, causing her to fumble with her phone. It took an eternity for her to dial the emergency number, her fingers trembling uncontrollably. Medical staff arrived with swift efficiency, their faces etched with a blend of determination and grim resignation. They worked feverishly, their hands moving with practiced precision, but there was an air of helplessness that clung to them, a silent acknowledgment of the severity of my condition. From my elevated vantage point, I watched with a sense of growing dread as they wheeled me into the emergency room. The cold, harsh lights of the hospital starkly illuminated the scene, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch out like fingers of fate. I could see the intense focus in their eyes, the urgent whispers exchanged, the desperate measures taken. But despite their best efforts, a cold, heavy certainty began to seep into my consciousness. I felt an overwhelming realization that my chances of survival were slipping away, the sense of finality pressing down like a suffocating weight. The darkness of unconsciousness loomed closer, and the faint echoes of my own fears became a mournful soundtrack to the desperate flurry of activity around me. Yet, even as my grip on reality began to wane, one disquieting detail remained clear in my mind: Laura’s reaction. Amid the urgency of the situation, I noticed something profoundly unsettling. She hadn’t called the police. She had only reached out to emergency services, and her behavior seemed inexplicably detached. It was as if something was profoundly wrong, a sense of disquiet that gnawed at the edges of my awareness. As the medical staff worked on me, I could see their heads shaking in somber resignation, their attempts becoming more futile with each passing moment. The knowledge that I might not be saved settled heavily upon me, the finality of it all casting a dark pall over my fading consciousness. The eerie silence of the operating room seemed to grow louder as the room became increasingly distant. Laura’s strange, almost mechanical presence at the periphery of the scene remained a haunting, unanswered question. And as the darkness enveloped me, I was left with a final, chilling thought: why had she not called for the police? Jason arrived, his face etched with panic and desperation. He burst into the room, his eyes wide and searching, his breaths coming in short, ragged bursts. But even as he approached, the gravity of the situation was evident. The doctors’ solemn expressions and the somber tone of their voices conveyed what the reality was too painfully clear to deny. When the doctor finally spoke those devastating words—”We did everything we could, but I’m afraid we’ve lost her”—the impact was palpable. Jason’s body seemed to convulse with the force of his grief, a shudder that wracked him twice before he collapsed onto the cold, sterile floor. He sank down as though the weight of the world had suddenly become too much to bear. His cries, raw and wrenching, filled the room, a primal expression of pain that cut through the oppressive silence. Laura, who had been sobbing beside me, now buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook with the force of her anguish, her voice breaking as she uttered words of regret and self-reproach. “It’s all my fault,” she choked out between gasping sobs. “I didn’t take good care of Selina… of the baby… If only I had been more vigilant, more careful…” The sound of her anguish was haunting, a stark contrast to the clinical coldness of the emergency room. Her voice wavered with the weight of guilt and sorrow, each word a painful reminder of the fragility of life and the harshness of fate. Jason’s despair was almost palpable, his cries an anguished plea to the heavens as he lamented the loss. “If possible,” he sobbed, his voice breaking with the strain, “I would rather it had been me. I would trade my life for hers… for the baby. I would give anything to undo this.” Around us, the murmurs of the other patients in the waiting area were tinged with sorrow and sympathy. They whispered among themselves, their voices heavy with lament. They spoke of how much Jason and Laura had cared for me, how deeply their grief spoke to the love and commitment they had shown. Jefferson entered the room, his face etched with the rawness of grief, his eyes red and puffy from hours of crying. He held something tightly in his hand, a piece of paper that seemed almost to pulse with the gravity of the situation. The room, already heavy with the weight of collective sorrow, felt even more oppressive as he approached Jason. “Jason,” Jefferson’s voice was thick with emotion, barely holding back the tremor that threatened to break free. He extended the insurance policy toward Jason, his hand shaking slightly. “This is the insurance policy… the one that Selina bought before she… before she passed away. You’re the beneficiary. I’m… I’m giving it to you now.” Jason, still slumped on the floor, looked up through his tears, the dazed expression on his face reflecting the shock and disbelief that had consumed him. He took the document from Jefferson’s trembling hand, his fingers brushing against the cold, impersonal paper that now felt like a cruel reminder of what had been lost. The harsh reality of Jefferson’s words cut through the chaos. “Once a person dies, they can’t come back to life,” he said, his voice a harsh whisper of finality. During my pregnancy with our second child, the weight of impending responsibility seemed to press down on me with an almost unbearable intensity. The loss of our first son was a wound that would never fully heal, and the prospect of bringing another life into the world was both a beacon of hope and a source of profound anxiety. It was in this fragile state of mind that Jefferson’s insistence on a personal accident insurance policy found its way into our lives. Jefferson had approached me with a sense of urgency and conviction that was difficult to ignore. “It’s not just about you,” he had said, his voice carrying an undercurrent of gravity. “If something were to happen, this policy could provide a safety net for the baby, for the future.” His words, though unsettling, made a kind of sense in the context of my fears. I was convinced by his reasoning, and amidst the whirlwind of emotions and preparations for the new arrival, I signed the document. “Why?” Jason’s voice, raw and anguished, broke through the murmur of the room. “Why did it have to be this way? Why does it feel like everything we did to protect ourselves has only made the pain worse?” The child had not been born yet, so the beneficiary was Jason. Surrounding him were the medical professionals, their expressions a mix of professional detachment and deep empathy. The families of other patients, drawn by the commotion, stood at a respectful distance, their faces reflecting a shared sense of compassion and unease. He carefully unfolded the insurance policy, his movements deliberate and almost reverent. His face, though streaked with tears, bore a faint, enigmatic smile—a smile that seemed almost out of place in the context of his grief. Jason, engulfed in his own profound grief, sought to manage the immediate aftermath with a sense of hurried finality. With Jefferson’s assistance—a relationship steeped in familial ties and the practicalities of dealing with such a sudden and devastating loss—plans were swiftly put into motion. They want to cremate me as soon as possilbe. Laura’s voice cut through with a note of anguished concern. “There’s a baby in her belly,” she said, her words trembling with a mixture of fear and superstition. “It wouldn’t be right to cremate them together. It’s not auspicious.” For a fleeting moment, I had clung to the hope that Jason would honor both me and the unborn child, that he would find a way to protect our last vestige of hope. But hope, in the face of such overwhelming grief, often fades into a cruel and unforgiving reality. With a face etched in a grim resolve, Jason nodded to Jefferson, a decision made in the depths of his pain. Jefferson, who had been a steady presence amidst the chaos, now stepped forward with an almost eerie calmness. His face was set in a determined expression, reflecting the grim task ahead. The room seemed to hold its breath as Jefferson began the procedure. The clinical sounds of the medical staff preparing, the rustle of sterile sheets, and the muted beeping of monitors created a jarring contrast to the emotional storm swirling around them. Each sound, each movement, felt like a stark reminder of the painful reality that was unfolding. The extraction of the baby from my body was a scene of heart-wrenching cruelty. The tiny, delicate form was removed with clinical precision, the procedure carried out with a detachment that seemed almost barbaric in its coldness. The baby, so small and fragile, was placed into a small, stark container—a vessel that seemed to absorb all the warmth and hope that had once surrounded it. Jefferson, with a methodical detachment, carried the container toward a trash can. The sight was unbearable. The small, lifeless body of the baby, once a symbol of new beginnings, was now a discarded object, reduced to the most impersonal of receptacles. The trash can loomed large, a cruel and final destination for what had been a beacon of hope and potential. The clang of the container as it was lowered into the trash can was a harsh, final note that seemed to reverberate through the room. The sound was jarring, a stark and unforgiving punctuation to the devastating scene. It echoed with a sense of finality that cut through the air like a blade, underscoring the brutal reality of what had just transpired. Jason stood by, his face contorted with an anguish that words could scarcely capture. His eyes, once filled with tears, now stared blankly at the trash can, as if trying to reconcile the incongruity of the act with the depth of his grief. The scene was a brutal testament to the harsh decisions made in the depths of sorrow, a painful reminder of the fragile line between hope and despair. Laura’s cries, raw and desperate, filled the room with a sorrow that seemed almost palpable. Her sobs were a haunting echo of the pain and loss that had become a suffocating presence. The onlookers, their faces etched with shock and profound sadness, stood silent witness to the tragic unfolding, their eyes reflecting a mixture of empathy and horror. Once the last remnants of my physical presence had been reduced to ashes, Jason’s attention shifted to the next urgent matter at hand—the insurance compensation. In the quiet of the night, he hurried to the insurance company, driven by a determination to claim what was due. His face, a mask of weariness and despair, held an anxious hope as he presented the necessary documents. The waiting room of the insurance office was a place of clinical efficiency, but for Jason, it was charged with a personal intensity. The minutes dragged as he awaited the outcome, each tick of the clock a reminder of the gravity of his actions. When the final number was revealed, it was as though a weight had been lifted, but not in the way one might hope for. Jason’s eyes widened as he saw the amount of the compensation—a substantial sum that promised to alleviate the financial burden but also held a peculiar allure of relief and even elation. His face, etched with the pain of recent loss, suddenly brightened with an almost unsettling smile. It was a smile that seemed to juxtapose the grief he had so recently endured, a stark contrast to the tragic events that had led to this moment. The amount was substantial, and the promise of financial stability seemed to offer a bittersweet solace. That night, as the moon cast its cold light across the city, Jason and Laura returned home, their minds occupied by the practicalities of their new reality. Little did they know that the night would bring more than just the shadows of their sorrow. Laura, who had been quieter than usual throughout the day, suddenly found her energy renewed. Her eyes sparkled with a feverish intensity as she turned to Jason, her face lighting up with a fervor that seemed almost out of place given the day’s events. The promise of the insurance payout had injected a jolt of vitality into her demeanor. “Did you get the money?” Laura’s voice was filled with an eagerness that bordered on manic. She clutched at Jason’s arm, her grip tight with anticipation. “Thanks to Jefferson this time. She made Selina, that bitch, buy insurance before she died. It’s not in vain that I served her so well with good food and drinks before.” Her words tumbled out in a rapid, almost breathless torrent, her excitement barely contained. The house, which had been a place of sorrow and mourning, now felt as though it was pulsating with a new, unsettling energy. Laura’s face, flushed with a mix of triumph and greed, was a stark contrast to the mournful expression she had worn earlier. As Laura’s gaze fell on the amount of compensation Jason had received, her expression transformed dramatically. “I didn’t expect this money-consuming thing to be so valuable,” she began, her tone a mix of incredulity and self-reproach. Her words spilled out with a fervent intensity, as if she were trying to process the magnitude of the situation aloud. “If I had known it earlier, I wouldn’t have gone through all the trouble of pretending to have a heart attack at the baby’s full moon banquet and then dropping it to smash her. The first time she didn’t die, she was so lucky.The child was dead. It’s not worth it!” “By the way,” she began, her voice taking on a cold, commanding tone, “since Selina’s dead, did her dowry and the house she bought before your marriage all belong to you now?” “You should quickly follow up on this,” Laura urged, her voice now tinged with an icy determination. “Liquidate whatever can be liquidated. Every asset, every last bit of property that belonged to her. Make it all yours.” Listening to their conversation, I felt a chill all over my body. I couldn’t stop trembling. “It turns out that Laura was faking a heart attack before,” “She staged the entire thing to get my fortune. She pretended to have a heart attack so she could drop my son, aiming to smash me as I was passing by downstairs. She failed in that, but the result was even more devastating. My son died on the spot.” Jason said it was just an accident. It turned out that all of this was Laura’s conspiracy. I yearned to rend them asunder, to tear their world into a thousand shreds and watch their ruin unfold. Yet, as I reached for this desperate retribution, my own essence felt insubstantial, like mist slipping through grasping fingers. My soul, once a beacon of fierce determination, now felt like an ethereal wisp—powerless and hollow, unable to manifest the wrath that roared within me. In that moment of bitter impotence, I was left only with the haunting echo of my own impotent rage, a specter of vengeance unable to shape reality. Jason’s face changed. “Mom, Selina had an accident at Jefferson’s hospital. Jefferson orchestrated the car crash. When you’re out, make sure to act really upset. Otherwise, someone might leak this online, and if the truth gets out, we’ll be hammered by everyone on the internet.” Laura quickly lowered her voice. “Don’t worry, I won’t say a word. But what about Jefferson? Did you take care of him?” Jason smirked. “Mom, relax. Jefferson’s boss is an old buddy of our boss. Jefferson donated Selina’s kidney to my boss’s daughter. With that connection, they’ll help us keep this under wraps.” “And I heard they’re going to promote Jefferson and give his boss a luxury car because of it.” … Listening to Jason and Laura plot their future, my rage boiled over. I wanted to tear them apart and see if their hearts were as rotten as their souls. As I flailed my arms in frustration, a gust of wind swept through, knocking a vase off the table and shattering it on the floor. The room fell into a tense silence. Jason went pale, and Laura dropped to her knees. “Selina, if you’re looking to blame someone, blame yourself,” Laura spat. “If I hadn’t married into the Black family, none of us would have faced so many disasters, and we wouldn’t be staring down death.” I tried to lunge at them, to slap the truth into their faces. But instead, my body began to fade, becoming translucent. “Am I disappearing?” But no, I wasn’t disappearing. I was being reborn. I found myself back on the day Laura was supposed to take me to Jefferson’s hospital for my prenatal check-ups.
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