Count Bodies Like Sheep Novels & Stories

On the tenth day of my postpartum recovery, my husband, Deputy Commander Harvey Wyatt, uploads a photo of me breastfeeding my newborn in a disheveled state to the department's group chat. Obviously, that photo was taken without my knowledge. "See? After having a kid, she's as loose as a sack. It makes me sick just looking at her. I much prefer my side piece, who's nice and tight." A few female colleagues send sweating emojis to the group. The majority of the chat, however, consists of the male colleagues' perverse silence. While I continue to burp my baby with one hand, my tears land on the screen. In order to give birth to this baby, my pelvic bone was sawn in half, which causes me so much pain that I can't even walk properly. But all I get in return is my own husband body-shaming me in front of hundreds of people. I don't bother arguing with Harvey at all. Half an hour later, I drag my broken body all the way to the commander's office with a divorce agreement as well as the chat history over the past ten days, which has been printed out, in my hands.

Ten years after graduation, I funded a scholarship for underprivileged students at my alma mater. During the ceremony's interview segment, one of the scholarship recipients suddenly grabbed the microphone. "That night at the karaoke bar, you forced yourself on me! Aren't you going to take responsibility?" Her words cut through the room, and every student and faculty member turned to look at me. In an instant, I was branded a rapist. The company's stock fell immediately in response. Amid the chaos, I simply stared at the girl in front of me. Had students really become so ruthless just to get what they wanted? Only a few days ago, I had helped her fend off a gang of troublemakers, so how could she turn around and spread lies about me then? Besides, I was a woman. What could I possibly have done to her?

During our New Year’s Eve dinner, I told my family that my company was not giving out year-end bonuses. The table went silent. Even the TV host counting down to midnight suddenly sounded grating. My husband and daughter slammed the table in frustration. “No year-end bonus?! How are we supposed to pay the mortgage and the car loan? I didn’t marry you so you could live off me!” “Other moms either buy designer bags or send money. You’re the most useless one. You can’t even bring home a $100,000 bonus.” My in-laws sat there with dark looks on their faces and said nothing. I looked at their self-righteous faces and felt a lump in my throat. All these years, every expense in this family was paid with the money I earned from late nights, overtime, and project commissions. But all they could see was the $100,000 bonus I did not bring home. “If you can’t make any money, then get out!” My husband grabbed my arm and pushed me toward the door. My daughter was not satisfied and kicked me on the lower back. I did not turn around. I took out my phone and booked the presidential suite at a downtown five-star hotel. My bank account had just received a $1 million dividend payout. It was true that I did not get a year-end bonus. But I got promoted to management. From this day onward, I would receive $1 million in dividends every year.

Jessica came to her senses under the bed of her fiancé and good friend’s, regaining her IQ, and couldn’t go back ever since. The douchebag: “Jessica, prepare a birthday gift to celebrate my dad’s birthday.” “Sorry, now I am the chairman, it is him who should pay tribute!” Jessica’s scum girlfriend: “Jessica, can you let me host the marriage show?” “You said that you haven’t experienced the pure love, so don't even think about it!” Jessica tore off the fake masks of the scumbags’ and turned to a pair of ink eye pupils: “It does feel cool to slap others, but don’t forget what your identity is!” “What identity?" Christian Maddox held her waist lightly, his face without missing a beat: “You should ask the little prince in your belly...”

After the real son, Asher Vale, was brought back, everything in our house became tied to drawing lots. The chef of the day, who would have to cook a particular person's preferred dishes, had to be decided by drawing lots. Even our parents' kisses and hugs were chosen the same way. I always drew the short stick. The long stick, by default, belonged to Asher. He never had to do anything to receive our parents' love. Whenever I felt it was unfair and wanted to cry, Mom would scold me sharply, "I bought the lot-drawing box because I was afraid you'd feel hurt. I wanted to be fair to both of you. If you want something, decide it yourselves. Your father and I won't interfere. If you can't draw the long stick, you can only blame your bad luck." So I began practicing every day, shaking the box diligently, over and over, in hopes that one day, it would help me earn my parents' love. Unfortunately, for ten years, I never once drew the long stick. Until my birthday. Asher wanted to go to the amusement park, and Mom once again told us to decide by drawing lots. I secretly glued the two short sticks together and handed them to Mom, hoping to keep her with me. She slapped me hard across the face, screaming that I was cheating and disobedient. Then she stormed out of the house with Asher. When I fell to the ground, the short stick stabbed deep into my neck. 'I'm sorry, Mom. Next time, I'll work harder. Next time, I'll definitely draw the long stick.'

On my twentieth birthday, my father asked me to draw from a box of straws. It was to pick a husband between William Smith and Austin Smith to inherit North Town. The short straw represented Austin, while the long straw represented William. No matter how hard I tried, I could not get the long straw. However, I was certain that I did not want to marry Austin. I drew straws for three years, but it was to no avail. I had no choice but to tamper with the straws to marry William as I wished. However, ten years into our marriage, he was no longer gentle and kind. He had turned into a really cold person. He neither returned home nor touched me. Even when I threatened him with a knife, he refused to talk to me. Despite feeling hurt, I was unwilling to let him go. That was until I watched him kick away the only medicine I had for my asthma while I was writhing on the floor. “I was the one who switched out the straws. There was no long straw, yet you forced me to marry you. Mandy died from a broken heart, so you should pay with your life.” When I opened my eyes again, I was holding a short straw. I calmly said, “Since it’s the short one, I choose Austin.”

It was the day Jessica Goldenfold got the International Wealth Club Charity Award. My doctor pronounced me dead, for I could not afford the artificial heart needed for my survival. The show's host asked Jessica to call the one whom she had the most regret about. She called my number. I picked it up. She asked, "Do you ever regret leaving me for money?" I stared at the obscene bill for the artificial heart. Then, I chuckled. "You're a rich girl, Jessica. How about a loan of 30 grand?" She killed the call. I watched her telling everyone in front of the cameras, "No more regrets." She had no idea at all. She had no idea that I was the one who gave my heart to her when she had heart failure. I did it behind her back.

When her first love died, my wife jumped from the cruise ship to end her life on our honeymoon. That was when I realized she had never let go of Tyler. Reborn back to our teenage years, she didn’t hesitate to shake off my hand and walk straight toward her first love. I watched them leave together, then turned away. From that moment on, our lives became two parallel lines that would never cross. Ten years later, we meet again at a lavish gala in Rivendell. She was now the rising star of high society, proudly clinging to Tyler’s arm as they made their entrance. When she saw me crash the gala in search of someone, she couldn’t help but advise me. “Why are you still obsessed with me? Even if you’ve waited ten years, I’ll never love you.” I ignored her and pulled my son out of the corner where he had been sneaking cake. Her eyes instantly redden as she grabs my hand in a panic. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? Didn’t you say you’d only ever love me in this life?”

The day Bryan Abbott received the World Philanthropist Award, the doctors told me I would not live for long because I could not afford to replace my artificial heart. The TV host asked Bryan to call the person he regretted being with the most. Without hesitation, he dialed my number. I answered the call. Bryan asked, “Do you regret leaving me for money back then?” Staring at the astronomical bill for the artificial heart, I chuckled softly, “Bryan, you’re so rich now. Could you lend me $200,000?” The call cut off abruptly. I watched as Bryan icily said on TV, “Now, I have no regrets.” He did not know that back when his heart had failed, I had donated mine to him secretly so that he could live.

I used to be so happy with my husband, Ian Shaw, until his first love got too drunk one day and was taken away by five strange men for an entire night. To protect her reputation, he told everyone that I was the one who was kidnapped that night. Everyone criticized me, calling the baby in my belly a child of shame. I questioned Ian hysterically, but he said nonchalantly, "Ruby isn’t married yet. People will laugh at her if the news spreads." I looked icily at the man I had loved for six years, shock taking over as I realized he had probably never loved me back.