His Death Is Not My Fault
One day, shortly after I had experienced a miscarriage, Alan brought me a bowl of chicken soup—and a divorce agreement.
"Sophia's pregnant," he had said. "So let's just leave each other like mature adults do."
Chicken soup had never tasted so bitter in my life. I knew Sophia Mason—he had sponsored her education before.
She was also the one who caused my miscarriage.
I did not cry. I did not throw a fit. I just asked why.
He looked relieved. Then, he looked at me blankly. "The truth is I can't stand you over these seven years. Every time we lie together on our bed, I just can't help but be disgusted by what your body has gone through.
"I know you suffered that because of me. But I can't do it. I can't stop remembering how defiled it is.
"Our kid is gone. We owe each other nothing now—so let's end it here, right now."
So that was it, huh? Hilarious. He had no idea who the "defiled" one was—him.
Seven years ago, I inserted a memory chip into his brain to save him. And now, in three days' time, the chip will cease to function.
He will remember everything… and he will wish he were long dead.