My husband had what I thought was bipolar disorder. Every time he hit me, he’d remorsefully transfer ten thousand dollars to my account. I never fought back. I just quietly accepted the money, covering the bruises with foundation. My best friend called me pathetic, urging me to divorce him. I counted the balance in my account, a cold, calculated smile playing on my lips. “Not yet,” I’d tell her. “I’m not done making a fortune!” Until one day, he punched me in the stomach, and I had a miscarriage. “Cha-ching! One thousand four hundred dollars received.” A mechanical female voice echoed through the empty living room, jarringly loud. I spat out a mouthful of blood, metallic and coppery, like rust. Damian sat across from me on the sofa, hands clasped over his head, despair clawing at him. His hair was a mess, tangled from when he’d been frantically raking his fingers through it during his fit. “I’m so sorry… Cassie, I’m so sorry… I just couldn’t control myself…” His voice was choked with tears, trembling like a leaf caught in a storm. I didn’t say anything. I just quietly picked myself up off the floor. My knee had hit the table earlier, and the pain was excruciating. It was probably already purple. I walked to the mirror. My left cheek was swollen. Five distinct finger marks, angry red, almost purple. Damian hadn’t held back his strength in that slap. He genuinely wanted to kill me, or rather, his “episode-self” wanted to kill me. I picked up the concealer, layering it on, coat after coat. The liquid foundation was cold, a stark contrast against the burning wound. The temperature difference jolted me, pulling me back to a grim reality. Damian’s heavy footsteps sounded behind me. He wrapped his arms around me from behind, burying his face in the crook of my neck. His tears streamed down, scalding my skin through my shirt, making me flinch. “Cassie, hit me back, yell at me… I’m a monster…” “It’s okay.” I looked at my reflection in the mirror, my lips curving into a perfectly composed, forgiving—almost saintly—smile. “I know you’re sick. I don’t blame you.” Damian cried harder, like a child who had done something terribly wrong. He pulled out his phone again. “Cha-ching! One thousand four hundred dollars received.” With the previous one, that made twenty thousand. One slap, twenty thousand dollars. Pretty good deal. My monthly salary was only two thousand, and I had to endure my boss’s verbal assaults and demanding clients. Here, taking a beating for a few minutes of pain could earn me ten months of wages. No matter how I crunched the numbers, it was a profitable trade. Damian was born with a silver spoon, his family owned a chain of factories. Money was just a number to him. To me, it was survival.
Damian fell asleep. Assaulting someone was physically draining, especially with his kind of hysterical rage. I covered him with the blanket, looking at his sleeping face, which still held a hint of gloom. When he wasn’t having an episode, Damian was actually quite handsome. High cheekbones, a straight nose, and eyes that held a deceptive allure, hinting at profound affection. Who would have thought that beneath that attractive exterior lurked a beast? I closed the bedroom door, walked to the balcony, and lit a cigarette. I wasn’t much of a smoker; I only lit one when the pain kept me from sleeping. My phone screen lit up. It was a SnapChat from Chloe, my best friend. “Still alive?” I took a screenshot of my balance and sent it to her. Silence for a moment, then a long voice message came through. “Cassie, are you out of your mind? Do you have some kind of masochistic complex? Twenty thousand dollars is all it takes to buy you off? Don’t you know domestic abuse never stops once it starts? What if he kills you one day? Are you going to take those hundreds of thousands to spend in the afterlife?” Chloe’s scolding was harsh, but I knew she meant well. She was the only one who knew Damian hit me. I blew out a smoke ring, watching the smoke dissipate into the night. I typed back: “Almost.” “Almost what?” “The pig is getting fat.” Chloe sent a string of ellipses, probably thinking I was beyond saving. Of course, I wasn’t crazy. I was perfectly lucid. More lucid than anyone. I touched my stomach. It was flat, soft, with no sign of life. But I needed it to have one. Damian’s bipolar disorder was getting worse. It started with throwing things, then pushing, and now it was full-on fists. The frequency also increased from once a month to once a week. I knew the breaking point was coming. Once we crossed that line, I might actually die. But I couldn’t leave yet. Damian, though remorseful, wasn’t remorseful enough. His guilt levels hadn’t reached the sum I desired. I wanted more than just twenty or thirty thousand in pocket money. I wanted his entire fortune. Or perhaps, his life.
The preparations were almost complete. The blood pack I’d ordered online was film-grade special effects, disturbingly realistic, even carrying a sickly sweet, metallic scent. As for the “fetal model.” I’d acquired it through some discreet channels. It was tiny, palm-sized, an unformed mass that sent shivers down my spine. I hid it in the bottom freezer drawer, wrapped in three layers of black plastic bags. Every time I opened the fridge for milk, I felt that thing silently watching me, radiating an unnatural cold. It was insane, I knew. But to hunt a beast, the hunter must be even crazier. This Friday was Damian’s birthday. As was customary, he would have some wine. Alcohol was a lethal combination with bipolar medication, especially when mixed. But I still bought him the best red wine, a Romanée-Conti, which cost me half of what I’d saved from a year of enduring his beatings. An investment, after all, always came with a cost. At seven in the evening, Damian returned. He seemed in a good mood, carrying an Hermès bag. “Happy Birthday, darling.” I blinked, surprised. “But it’s your birthday.” Damian smiled, walking over to kiss my forehead. “I know, but I wanted to give you a gift. As long as you’re happy, I’m happy.” For a moment, I almost wavered. If you ignored those violent nights, Damian truly was a perfect husband. Wealthy, romantic, gentle. Too bad he was a lunatic. I unwrapped the gift; it was a limited-edition Birkin bag. “Do you like it?” he looked at me expectantly. “I love it,” I said, smiling and nodding. “Let’s eat. I made your favorite roasted lamb with rosemary.” At the dining table, candlelight flickered. Damian drank one glass, then two, then three. His eyes started to glaze over, his cheeks flushed, and his voice grew louder. I knew the medication was taking effect. Not the alcohol, but my special “ingredient” I’d added to the wine. It was a potent neuro-stimulant designed to amplify emotions and trigger aggressive outbursts. Damian had been taking the lithium prescribed by his doctor, but I’d swapped out his meds. I’d replaced them with identical-looking vitamin supplements. The real heavy-hitters were all in the wine. “Cassie…” Damian suddenly slammed his wine glass onto the table. Red wine splashed onto the white tablecloth, exploding into a blood-red stain. “Do you look down on me?” His eyes had changed. That familiar, violent, murderous glint was back. The show was about to begin.
I feigned panic, shrinking back. “Damian, what’s wrong? Why would I look down on you?” “You do look down on me! You think I’m crazy! You think I live off my family’s money!” Damian abruptly stood up, knocking over his chair. He rounded the table, stepping closer to me with each stride. Instead of retreating, I moved forward, clutching my stomach tightly. This action provoked him immensely. “What’s in your stomach? Huh? Is it a bastard?” That was a step I hadn’t anticipated. His delusions were worse than I’d imagined. But it was precisely what I wanted. “Damian! Are you insane? That’s your child! I’m three months pregnant!” I shrieked, my voice raw with terror. “My child? Hahahaha! I can’t even have children! I’m sick! I’m a lunatic! How could a lunatic have a child?!” Damian roared, like a rabid beast. He lunged, grabbing my hair and slamming my head against the wall. Thud! It hurt. But I held it in. I collapsed to the floor, curling into a ball. “Don’t hit me… please… don’t hurt the baby…” I cried out, my voice growing weaker. But this didn’t awaken his conscience; instead, it acted as a catalyst, driving him further into madness. “Die! All of you, just die!” Damian raised his foot and brutally kicked my stomach. Once. Twice. I felt the phantom snap of a rib. But I had to wait for the most vicious blow. Now! I violently crushed the blood pack hidden in my clothes. Warm, viscous liquid gushed out, soaking my dress and streaming down my thighs, pooling on the floor. Bright red blood spread across the white tiles, a horrifying sight. I let out one last scream, then pushed the already prepared “fetal model” from beneath my dress. It lay in the pool of blood, a small, purplish-black mass, grotesque and terrifying. The world went silent. Damian stopped moving. He gasped for breath, his eyes fixated on the puddle of blood on the floor and the mass of flesh within it. His pupils constricted violently, and he froze, as if struck by lightning. I “fainted.” But in the instant before I closed my eyes, I saw the look of utter breakdown on Damian’s face. It was terror. Not because he had hit me, but because—he had killed.
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