This was Zoey’s funeral hall.
The room was covered in white curtains, and in the middle was Zoey’s photo—her bright smile frozen against a black-and-white backdrop that felt unsettling, as if even in that smile, something was terribly wrong.
A few lilies lay in the coffin, encircled by a ring of daisies, her favorite flowers.
In the photo, Zachary looked noticeably thinner, a shadow of his former self. His body seemed so fragile that it might break with the slightest touch.
Everything was shown from my point of view.
I stepped forward, wanting to comfort him, reaching out to place my hand on his shoulder. But before I could touch him, he violently threw me off.
The words I wanted to say got stuck in my throat. I didn’t know how to start or how to explain everything that had happened.
Zachary suddenly turned, grabbed my hair, and yanked me toward Zoey’s coffin.
“You’re hurting me, Zach,” I gasped.
I clutched at his hand, desperately trying to break free, kicking my legs with all the strength I had left. But Zachary didn’t even flinch.
With one swift motion, he hurled me in front of the coffin.
My forehead slammed against its edge, and warm blood began to seep out.
“How dare you come to Zoey’s funeral?” he roared. “What face do you have to stand here in front of her?! When the police questioned you, why didn’t you speak up? The surveillance footage clearly shows your back! Who are you protecting?”
I trembled, staring at him, but no words came out.
The scene began to blur, and the crowd watching grew more agitated.
“She’s just pretending! She wants us to see her suffer at Zachary’s hands so we’ll pity her—ugh! What a scheming bitch!”
“She deserves to die!”
Their insults echoed as the scene shifted again.
Now, it was our wedding day.
When Zachary and I announced our marriage, it sparked a big controversy in Springfield. Those who had once been close to Zoey turned against him, accusing him of betraying her memory and marrying someone like me—a woman they considered toxic.
On the day of the wedding, the car was vandalized.
A group of masked people, rallying in Zoey’s name, had organized the destruction.
Fortunately, nothing worse happened, and the ceremony went on without further incident.
I was happy that day.
Looking back, I realized how foolish I had been and how naive I was to believe Zachary’s words.
The wedding wasn’t extravagant; most guests were his subordinates, attending only because of his pressure.
Still, I felt happy that day, even though I never fully understood why.
On the big screen, a single tear slid down and fell onto our wedding rings.
When I looked up, Zachary was smiling gently at me.
There was no formal officiant, no extravagant ceremony—just a simple exchange. But for me, it was enough. I knew he didn’t want to spend his life with me or grow old together. Still, I held on to the illusion.
Then, the scene cut abruptly.
I was now in our basement, with my wrists tightly shackled to the cold floor.
Zachary sat beside me. The tenderness in his eyes was gone, replaced by an icy, merciless resolve.
“What are you hiding?” he demanded.
I closed my eyes, tears sliding silently down my face, unable to answer.
“If you won’t talk,” he said, his voice sharp and cold as a blade, “then I’ll make you understand real pain.”
He lit a cigarette, took a drag, and then pressed the burning tip against my skin.
A scream tore from my throat as the stench of burning flesh filled the air.
Dizziness washed over me. I didn’t know if it was the pain or the exhaustion overtaking me, but I felt the heat of the cigarette again.
My mouth opened, yet no sound escaped.
The audience’s words were filthy, cruel, and venomous, but they were nothing compared to what I had already gone through. Their cruelty no longer had the power to hurt me.
Maybe death would be a kind of release.
I bit down hard on my tongue, the metallic taste of blood spreading through my mouth.
