Go Pluck Your Feathers

The guests exchanged uneasy glances before quietly taking their leave. Harold Cletcher paused, finally remembering me. He turned around and met my tearful eyes. After a sigh, he reached out to brush the feathers from my head. "Alright, stop this tantrum."

I moved away from his hand, and my gaze fell upon the full-body mirror. On our wedding night, Harold had frowned and told me he was allergic to all hair, fur, and feathers. I had been the lead dancer of a top dance crew. Yet for him, I shaved my head bald.

"Why?" My voice was shaking.

Harold sat down and answered without even blinking, "Wendy's insecure because you had perfectly long hair, while hers is already graying. She nearly took her own life once. I had to come up with an excuse so you'd shave.

"Besides, I'm not complaining. Why do you even care? It's no big deal. Anyone would be concerned about her."

Harold grabbed the chickens and shoved them into the cage. I snickered and pulled out a steel box, then I hurled it right at him. "Right. You care about her so much that you even collected her hair!"

The look on his face shifted. He crouched down and looked up at me, his face full of frustration. "I didn't give you access to my bedroom!" His knuckles were turning white. "Every strand of hair tells of her contribution to the family!"

Beneath his anger, I could see guilt. And that hurt more than anything.

Then he suddenly sneered. "I knew I was right to let Wendy take care of the baby. If I had let you be the caretaker, they'd be done for."

I froze, and something squeezed my throat. "What do you mean the baby?" Two years ago, my firstborn was born prematurely and died from asphyxiation. I nearly cried myself blind.

Harold hugged me and kept repeating, "We'll get another one."

But now he was on the couch and continued, "Wendy's baby died after she gave birth to it. I didn't want her to be heartbroken, so I injected you with oxytocin. Your baby came out prematurely, and I let Wendy take care of it. She helped you raise your child. You should thank her."

Thank her? For what? For letting me grieve over a child who had never truly been gone?

I slapped him across the face. Harold did not dodge. He only pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek, then reached out and caressed my belly.

"Have you vented enough? If you hate that box so much, I'll burn it. You're about to be a mother. Stay calm. I gave her the first child. If you want to hate someone, hate me."

I grabbed a glass and threw it at his face. "So what is this child? Some sort of compensation?"

Blood drenched his forehead, and he wiped my tears away. "No," he said softly.

For one brief second, I thought there might still be something worth saving between us. Then he continued matter-of-factly, "Wendy wants a daughter."

Dead silence filled the room. Then my uneven breathing shattered it. "Get out!" I pointed at the door, my finger trembling.

Harold wiped his blood away and chuckled. "You've cut off ties with your family, Elizabeth. You have no choice. Stay in your place, and you'll remain my one and only wife. I promise you, you can be this child's godmother."

He picked up the shawl Wendy had dropped. Not a single drop of blood had touched it. Then he left without turning back.

The ground was covered in nothing but feathers, and I was laughing, yet I was also crying.

Then I called my father for the first time in three years. He was known as the king of gamblers. "I lost the bet, Dad. I'll come home."

I hung up. A moment later, my phone buzzed again. Harold's furious voice came through the speaker. "This is all your fault! You made Wendy so upset that she fainted. Get over here right now!"