Chapter 1 - The Boiling Point
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The pain came before the sound.
One second I was standing near the stove in our dim kitchen, and the next, Luke grabbed the iron handles of the stockpot. The water inside had been rolling at a violent boil for twenty minutes.
His eyes looked almost hollow, stripped of any warmth or human hesitation.
“Maybe this will finally teach your body what it’s supposed to do,” he hissed.
Then he tipped the pot forward.
The boiling water hit my chest, neck, and arms in a searing wave. I opened my mouth to scream, but the shock stole the air directly from my lungs. The heat didn't just burn my skin; it sank deep into my flesh, cooking me alive in a matter of seconds. I fell onto the linoleum tile, curling into a tight ball, trying frantically to protect my face and stomach.
I remember the smell of scalded cloth. I remember the sound of my own skin blistering against my shirt.
And then, mercifully, darkness swallowed me whole.
When I opened my eyes again, the harsh fluorescent glare of hospital lights blinded me. Heavy white bandages were wrapped tightly across my chest and upper body. Every single shallow breath felt like crushed glass sliding down my throat.
Side monitors beeped in a steady, monotonous rhythm. Sitting right next to my bed in a plush vinyl armchair was Luke.
He didn't look like the monster who had cornered me in our kitchen. He looked like the picture-perfect, heartbroken husband. His eyes were red-rimmed, his clothes slightly disheveled, his head resting in his hands in an act of pure performative grief.
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He noticed my eyelids fluttering and immediately leaned over the bed guardrail, his face contorted in simulated concern.
“It was an awful accident,” Luke whispered, taking my uninjured hand before I could move it away. He looked up at the door as the attending physician stepped inside. “Doctor, she knocked the pot off the stove herself. She slipped on the rug. I tried to grab her, but I was too late.”
