I Don't Feel Pain, Only Betrayal

In the emergency surgery room, a nurse used surgical scissors to cut away the blackened blister on my arm. Blood mixed with pus dripped into a tray below, each drop landing with a faint tap.

In the bed beside me, another burn victim was sobbing uncontrollably while her boyfriend knelt on the floor, gently blowing on her wound.

Meanwhile, I sat silently on a stool, staring at the burn wound that reached deep into my dermis, expressionless.

The nurse paused and looked at me. "Doesn't it hurt?"

"I was born with congenital insensitivity to pain."

The scent of burned flesh filled the air. It was coming from me.

The nurse didn't say anything more. She simply worked faster.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. Julian Prescott had sent me a 60-second voice message. I tapped it open with one hand, and his voice came through the speaker—low, gentle, and patient, as though he were soothing a child.

"Audrey, be good. Don't hold this against Rebecca. She's been sheltered her whole life. She was just curious and thought your condition was fascinating. I've already scolded her and even took away her credit card as punishment.

"I've booked an appointment with the best burn specialist in Bestcare Hospital. I'll take you tomorrow. Don't worry. I won't let you be left with a scar."

In the entire 60 seconds, not once did he ask how severe the injury was. He didn't even ask which hospital I was in or whether anyone was there with me.

The message beneath his words was clear—the matter had already been handled, and I should let it go.

A notification appeared from my social media. Rebecca Grant had posted a new update. In the photo, the floor-to-ceiling windows of a Michelin-starred restaurant overlooked a twinkling city skyline. At the center of the shot, a well-defined hand was cutting a medium-rare steak into bite-sized pieces.

I recognized the watch on that hand immediately. It was a limited edition Patek Philippe Nautilus. I'd spent eight months saving for it to give it to Julian as a birthday present.

The caption of the post read, "My punishment for losing a bet is letting Jules treat me to delicious steak."

Julian said he'd scolded Rebecca. He said he'd taken away her credit card. Yet, he'd left me alone in the emergency room to deal with my injury while he was out for a Michelin-starred dinner with the person who had burned me.

When I returned home, the house was empty. A pair of fuzzy pink slippers with satin bows on top sat by the entrance. They were Rebecca's.

She had moved in two months ago, and traces of her were appearing in the house more and more, taking over the spaces that had once belonged to me.

I pushed open the bathroom door and undressed with one hand.

In the past, whenever I showered after getting hurt, Julian would carefully wrap every scrape and bruise in plastic wrap. He would test the water temperature three times before finally letting me step inside.

Today, I stood beneath the showerhead, letting warm water splash over my body. It seeped through the edges of the bandages and soaked into the wound. The white gauze slowly turned pink, like a blooming flower.

I couldn't feel the pain in my flesh. But every breath felt as if shattered glass were grinding through my chest.

Steam clouded the mirror. I wiped away a small patch and stared at my pale face.

Suddenly, I realized something. The pain receptor called Julian Prescott had rotted away long ago. It had rotted inside every instance of favoritism toward Rebecca and every compromise that came without limits.

After drying off, I sat on the edge of the bed. I stared at a text message for a reservation confirmation on my phone.

Julian and I had booked a table at a famous fine dining restaurant that required reservations six months in advance. We were supposed to celebrate our fifth anniversary tomorrow night.

I called the restaurant.

"Hello. How may I help you?"

"I'd like to cancel my reservation for tomorrow at 7:00 pm. It's under Audrey Sinclair."

"Miss, this booking has been on our waiting list for six months. Are you sure? We could help you reschedule—"

"No." My voice was quiet but steady. "We don't ever need a table anymore."

After hanging up, I opened WhatsApp and found Julian's contact information. His status message was still, "I'll bear the pain you can't feel".

I muted our chat.

The room fell into silence. All that was left was the sound of water dripping from my soaked bandages onto the floor.

For five years, this man had borne all my pain. Yet, now, he personally handed a knife to someone else to stab me with it, then smiled as he pressed a Band-Aid over the wound.

Tomorrow, Julian would come home. He would discover that our anniversary dinner was gone. He would discover that I hadn't replied to any of his messages.

And this time, I wasn't going to wait for him to feel the pain for me.