I gripped my stomach, the nausea rising until words failed me.
And then I saw them, six videos, labeled from “First” to “Sixth.”
Realization struck, and my blood surged wildly, the metallic taste of iron rushing up my throat.
I bit my lips until they bled and clicked on the sixth.
Javon and Cynthia were laughing and talking together.
In front of them, that knife felt as if it slashed straight through me, my heart torn into a thousand jagged pieces, the pain so sharp it curled in my stomach until I bent over the bedside, retching violently.
I didn’t close my eyes the entire night, my tears soaking through my clothes like a relentless storm.
The next morning, Javon, just as always, brought me a “heartfelt” breakfast.
So many varieties, American, Italian, soy milk, fried dough sticks, bread, egg tarts.
Before, I had thought this was his love for me. But now I understood, it was nothing more than indifferent, hollow gestures.
The memory of last night’s videos surged back, and I retched again.
Seeing me unwell, Javon looked stricken.
“Why are you still sick? It’s all my fault, I’ve made you suffer.”
“It’s nothing. I just want to go home.”
Javon’s expression froze for a brief moment.