I didn't recognize my own face in the mirror.
The woman staring back at me looked like someone who had survived a storm but never escaped it. Her eyes were dull, ringed with shadows that no amount of sleep ever seemed to erase. Her lips trembled slightly, as if she were holding back words she had learned were dangerous to speak.
But the pain behind those eyes—
That pain knew me.
It remembered everything.
I woke up long before dawn, my body jerking upright as though I had been dragged out of a nightmare. My heart pounded violently, each beat echoing in my ears. The room was dark, quiet, peaceful—yet my chest felt tight, my skin cold with sweat.
Something was wrong.
I pressed a hand to my sternum, breathing slowly, trying to calm myself. This feeling wasn't new. It had haunted me for years. A warning without words. A fear without shape.
I stood and walked to the bathroom, flipping on the light.
That was when I saw her.
Me.
For a moment, I stared, unsure how someone could look so… empty. I leaned closer to the mirror, gripping the sink as a strange ache spread through my limbs, like my body was bracing for something it already knew was coming.
And then the memories broke through.
Jon's voice came first—smooth, controlled, laced with blame.
"If you hadn't interfered… Maria would still be alive."
Maria.
Her name alone felt like a wound reopening.
She had died on the day of my wedding. The day that was supposed to be the beginning of my happiness. Instead, it became the foundation of my suffering. The world mourned her as a tragic lover. Jon mourned her as a saint.
And he punished me as the sinner.
He said I forced him to choose me. Said I ruined their love. Said my tears, my fear of losing him, my desperate need to be loved pushed her to her death.
Each time he said it, I apologized.
Even when I didn't understand what I was apologizing for.
After we married, the change was subtle—quiet enough that I didn't notice it at first. In public, Jon was perfect. Gentle. Attentive. Always holding my hand, always defending me. People admired him. Envied me.
They never saw what happened at night.
Every evening, without fail, he handed me a drink.
"Just to help you sleep," he'd say, smiling.
I trusted him.
I always trusted him.
The moment the liquid touched my lips, my body would grow heavy. My thoughts would blur. Darkness would take me before I could question anything.
And every morning, I woke up in pain.
My muscles ached like I had run miles. My head throbbed. Sometimes my body hurt in ways that made no sense, places I couldn't explain. Once, I found bruises on my arms and thighs that I didn't remember getting.
When I asked him, he laughed softly.
"You're sensitive," he said. "You were the one who wanted me so badly last night."
Shame kept me quiet.
Love kept me blind.
As I stared at my reflection, my fingers tightened painfully around the edge of the sink.
Something terrible was coming.
I could feel it.