“From Ashes to Hope) Chapter 12
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His words struck me with a sense of absurdity, and I burst into laughter, a
laughter that echoed through the room, filled with my scorn and helplessness,
mocking the absurdity of life and the complexity of fate.
Each laugh was filled with endless ridicule, spreading through the air, as if
trying to tear a hole in the oppressive atmosphere.
But amidst the hysterical laughter, tears streamed down my face, each drop
carrying pain and disappointment.
My heart felt like it was being squeezed by a cold hand. So, in his mind, the
impact of Lily’s death was merely the fear of not being able to explain it to his
family.
I mocked my own stupidity.
On countless lonely nights, I had hoped that he would have some paternal
conscience, that he would be heartbroken over Lily’s death. I had woven
beautiful dreams in the darkness, imagining him holding Lily’s photo, sobbing
uncontrollably, regretting his failure as a father.
But now I realized it was just my wishful thinking.
My heart felt like it was being roasted on fire, every inch of my skin scorched
by pain, a pain that emanated from the depths of my soul.
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I laughed, my face contorted with grief and anger, my body trembling
uncontrollably like a leaf in the autumn wind.
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I hated my own naivety, hated myself for not seeing his true colors sooner.
In this marriage, I was like a lonely dancer, wearing the red shoes from the
fairy tale, spinning alone in the darkness until I was exhausted.
On this cold and heartless stage of marriage, I performed my solo act of
sorrow and despair.
As my laughter subsided, I felt drained of all strength, only able to fix my
gaze on his eyes.
Those eyes, which once made my heart flutter, now filled me with disgust.
The coldness in them was like a sharp blade, piercing my heart.
“John, sign the divorce papers.”
My voice was icy, devoid of warmth, echoing from the depths of an abyss,
each word laced with determination, reverberating through the silent room.
At this moment, the last shred of affection I had for him vanished. The
sweet memories, the tender words, the loving gaze, all disappeared like smoke in
the wind, without a trace.
I felt my heart bleeding, each drop a testament to the failure of this marriage,
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the crimson drops a sorrowfal flow from my thamesed heat
I didn’t want to have anything to do with fus cold and headless man
anymore. I just wanted to break free from the shackles of mattage, to liberate
my soul, like a bird that had been caged for too long peating to star imo the sky.
Hearing my words, his unfocused eyes refocused, filled with regres and
despair, a deep sense of helplessness
His gaze scanned my face, as if searching for something
He frowned when he saw my face, asking in confusion. “What happened to
your face?
“Allergic reaction,” I replied coldly, I told you before, I’m severely allergic to
alcohol
My usually fair skin was now bright red, the redness stark and painful, as if I
had been burned.
The swollen areas were slightly raised, like small hills scattered across my
cheeks, forehead, and chin, marring my previously smooth skin.
There were even tiny rashes in some places, densely packed like pinpricks,
making my skin rough and uneven, like a canvas etched with pain.
My sensitive skin felt hot, as if countless ants carrying tiny flames were
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crawling and biting on it, sending a tingling heat deep into my skin.
The discomfort made me want to scratch, but I held back.
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This wasn’t the first time I had told him about this, but he never believed me.
Every time I explained, he saw it as unreasonable, a made–up excuse for me
to be jealous. My words were like annoying noise to him, easily ignored.
John fell silent after hearing my reply.
He stood there like a statue frozen in time.
I knew he must have recalled the countless times I had explained my
allergies to him.
Back then, no matter how serious or sincere I was, each word from the
bottom of my heart, he only saw it as a performance, as me being jealous of his
interactions with other women, using allergies as an excuse to get his attention.
This feeling of not being trusted was like a thorn, deeply embedded in my
heart, growing deeper with time.
After a while, he suddenly seemed to remember something and frantically
pulled out his phone.
For a moment, I thought he had finally come to his senses, that he was going
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to call someone to bring the divorce papers so he could sign them and end our
broken marriage.
The phone in his hand seemed to carry my hope for liberation.
However, John called his assistant again. Only after the call connected and
he heard the assistant’s voice did he remember that he had already fired him.
Embarrassment and annoyance flashed across his face, like a dark cloud.
He hung up silently, the click ending the sliver of hope I had just felt.
Then, under my pitiful and hopeful gaze, he expertly dialed another number,
his fingers gliding across the screen with ease. This time, it was the hospital.
His voice was urgent and concerned, the urgency seeming to pierce through
the phone, “This is John Miller, I’m Raina’s partner. I want to ask about her allergy,
how is she doing? Why hasn’t she come back?”
His anxious demeanor, as if Raina was the most important person in his life,
the center of his world, and without her, everything would collapse.
Even now, at this tense moment, the first person that popped into his mind
was Raina, not me, the one who was physically and emotionally wounded.
I was like a shadow forgotten in a corner, unnoticed.
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Seeing this, the anger and resentment in my heart erupted like a volcano,
and I couldn’t help but laugh bitterly.
The laughter was harsh, echoing through the silent room, filled with endless
mockery and despair, each laugh a mockery of my own misery.
Soon, the hospital staff replied that there was no record of Raina visiting the
hospital today.
His hand holding the phone trembled slightly, like a leaf in the wind, his
face filled with bewilderment, as if unable to accept this fact.
Seeing him like this, I said coldly, “You’re still concerned about the woman
who caused your daughter’s death? You said I wasn’t a good mother, do you think
you’re a good father?”
My voice was like an icicle, each word carrying a bone–chilling coldness,
like a winter wind piercing his heart, trying to wake him from his absurd
obsession.
I continued to press, “John, don’t you think you’re being ridiculous?”
