Fatal Vows: Tears Behind the Blade

Liam Slater and I were childhood sweethearts. Even from a young age, we knew we belonged together. There was no other way to explain it—we knew we were each other's perfect lovers.

I would cook and clean for him. I would also knit winter mittens and scarves for him. He would make me warm drinks, prepare anniversary gifts, and always be there for me.

We were both art majors. He specialized in oil painting while I did sketches. We had a common dream—we wanted to become renowned artists. We'd always been on good terms and agreed to marry once we could.

Everything changed when an accident took away Liam's right hand. I distinctly remembered the car's tires repeatedly running over his arm—it was as if the Grim Reaper was taking away a genius' paintbrush.

From then on, Liam changed drastically. He stopped talking to me, and his temper became bad. Sometimes, he would even get physical with me.

He continued painting, though. He did it with his left hand.

I knew I owed him this—if not for me insisting on having that drink that day, if not for that day being my birthday, if not for me making him leave the house before 6:00 pm… None of this would've happened.

Sometimes, he would snap out of his reverie and turn to me. "Is my life going to end soon?"

I would cry and hold him close, saying, "Life will be over for me if you leave. Promise me you won't end your life, okay? I'll always be by your side."

Sometimes, I would notice odd things about him. For instance, his oil paintings became increasingly darker. He would stare at the fruits on the table, seemingly wanting to stab them with his gaze.

For instance, he would wake up in the middle of the night and walk to the balcony. He would stare downstairs for a while before returning to bed.

I could understand him, though. We were going to marry, and I was the only one who could understand him.

The night after I submitted my graduation project, he proposed to me. We lived in a town away from home, and because of his arm, we decided not to have a wedding. We didn't even inform our parents.

Instead, we had a simple ceremony in our rented apartment. I wore a wedding gown and married the love of my life.

However, he didn't pull out a ring from amidst the bouquet—he pulled out a sharp fruit knife. The blade slashed against my skin, making my blood flow.

I heard him repeating, "Why is life so unfair to me? Why?"

This was my wedding night, which I'd dreamed of countless times since childhood. I spent two hours of it lying in a pool of blood as Liam stabbed me over 160 times. Each stab avoided my critical organs.

I begged him to let me go, but he said, "Didn't you say you would always be with me, my darling?"

I tried to flee when he went to the bathroom, but he caught me. He forced me to the balcony while brandishing his knife; I left a vivid trail of blood from the living room to the balcony.

Underneath the moonlight, he stared at my right hand like a starved beast. Ultimately, he swung the blade at me, stabbing me in the heart. Then, he shoved me off the balcony of our apartment, which was on the 20th floor.

At the same time, I saw the tears stream from his eyes. He said, "Goodbye, my perfect lover."