Chapter 9
When I woke up, it was already afternoon. Arthur, with disheveled hair and deep circles under his eyes, was dozing off in a chair.
“Why did you eat my noodles?” I asked.
He woke with a start, rubbing his eyes vigorously.
“It’s cold.”
“It’s okay, you worked so hard to make it. Even if it’s cold, I want to eat it.”
He blinked, regaining some energy, and tentatively asked, “Should I make you
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another bowl?”
Looking at his face, which was subtly hopeful, I smiled, “Never mind, let the chef handle it. Your cooking isn’t that great.”
His face fell immediately, as if reminded of something. He seemed to recall Mrs. Menzie smashing his bowl on the floor and berating him for being useless and unable to keep his father at home.
Arthur left the room with a stern face, and soon after, Tiffany entered, carrying a bowl of soup. As she approached, she lost her grip, and the hot soup splashed onto me.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
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Her eyes, however, showed more fear than
arrogance.
She glanced back at Arthur, who was leaning against the doorframe, with an ingratiating
look.
But this scene was familiar. It was like
the time when I was twelve in the school
cafeteria, covered in soup, and Arthur held
me for the first time.
Tears welled up in my eyes as I ran toward
the door.
Arthur extended his arms. “Don’t be afraid, I’ll
protect you…”
I stumbled into a warm embrace.
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“My doctor…”
Arthur’s face turned as dark as a pot bottom, and his hands awkwardly clutched at the air.
“Who let you in?” His tone was as cold as ice.
“I came because there was a report of a patient being held hostage, so I came to check. Everything okay?” The doctor was followed by a uniformed officer.
“Held hostage? Cary, tell him did you come back with me voluntarily or not?” Arthur grabbed one of my hands.
I nodded, somewhat confused.
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Arthur looked smug. “What’s the matter? I’m picking up my wife. Do you have any objections?”
“As Carina’s attending physician, she still needs to undergo a series of checks before being discharged.” The doctor began to lead
me out.
Arthur tried to stop us but had no valid reason, so he decided to come along.
“Why are you acting like a clingy shadow?” I blinked, puzzled.
Arthur, probably for the first time in his life, was described this way, turned bright red. Stammering for a while, he eventually let me
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- go.
By the time we got home after the check–up, night had fallen. The mansion seemed
unusually quiet, as if all the servants had
vanished.
The moment I opened the door, a figure reeking of alcohol lunged at me from the side and slammed me against the wall.
“Didn’t I tell you not to get close to other men?” Arthur’s eyes were bloodshot, like a wolf lurking in the dark.
“You promised me! You promised me!”
“Why are you so late? What were you doing
with that man?”
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His hot breath on my neck, combined with the nauseating smell of alcohol, made me struggle incessantly.
“What do you mean? Huh? You’re my wife!”
He tore at his shirt, pressed my head down, and bit into my neck.
I stood frozen like a puppet, tears of fear streaming from my eyes, staring helplessly
into his.
At that moment, he seemed momentarily
disoriented. Realizing that my mind was still that of a teenager, he abruptly released me and staggered back.
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I slowly slid down the wall, burying my face in my knees, sobbing like a frightened child.
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I was drunk…”
He knelt on the floor, like a dog, crawling to my feet, wanting to touch me but too afraid, continually apologizing.
“You’re a bad person… Go away… Go away…” I opened the door and pointed outside, crying.
His fear made him tremble as he looked at
the darkness outside.
“Go!” I shouted.
As I pushed him out, I slammed the door
shut.
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Just like when Mrs. Menzie locked him out after saying, “Artie, you disgust me,” leaving
him alone outside.
The garden of the Menzie family’s estate was vast, with lush trees resembling ghostly figures in the darkness.
I heard Arthur banging on the door, begging
me to let him back in.
At first, he called, “Cary.”
Then, it changed to “Mother.”
His cries turned into sobs, growing fainter
with the wind.
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Through the floor–to–ceiling windows, I saw Arthur huddled into a small ball, hiding in a corner. He knelt there, muttering to himself.
It was as if we had returned to those nights
from many years ago.
I opened the door and walked to his side.
He collapsed into my arms, tears streaming down his face. “Cary, I’m sorry… I’m sorry… Why is it only you? Why won’t she ever come out and see me? Why…”
I asked gently, “Who is she?”
Choking on his sobs, he whispered, “Mother.”
I gently patted his back.
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“Do you know? When I was a child, every time I knelt here, it was always you who came out to see me… But I just wanted, I just wanted her to open the door, gently take me inside, and tell me that she loved me…”
“But she never did.”
He rambled on, recounting the childhood
memories I knew or didn’t know, his grievances and pain pouring out like a child.
I stroked his head and said softly, “Let me
love you, okay?”
He looked up at me, his dark eyes filled with astonishment and confusion.
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