They Stole My Memories and Regretted It

My husband's sister was pregnant when she leapt from the building.

Her final phone call wasn't to him. It was to me.

When the police asked for clues, I said nothing.

When my in-laws knelt and begged, I watched them coldly.

Yet my husband never divorced me. If anything, he treated me even better than before.

Then, after I became pregnant, my nightmare truly began.

He tied me to the bed and summoned a group of vagrants, ordering them to take turns violating me. He said he wanted me to taste despair.

I became pregnant again and again, only to miscarry every time.

In less than a year, I lost my ability to bear children. Half my body was paralyzed.

My husband, Chris Macken, spent a fortune hiring a foreign research team capable of extracting memories from the human brain. I became an experiment.

"Jenny, the day you let my sister die with injustice hanging over her head, you should've known this day would come!

"She treated you like family. And you repaid her by working with her killer to destroy her. This is your retribution!"

I lay bound to the bed like a corpse, listening to Chris's hysterical curses. Every word cut like a blade.

"No… that's not how it was!"

"Then how was it?" he roared. "Say it!"

He grabbed my collar, eyes bloodshot as he demanded the truth.

The words reached my lips—only to be swallowed back down. Despair crept into my voice as I begged.

"I can't say it. Please don't force me."

His expression stiffened, then twisted into something monstrous.

"Put the device on her. Extract her memories now. I don't care if she lives or dies—I want the truth!"

His hatred for me had reached its peak.

He locked me inside a glass chamber and had it transported to the city's central plaza. Hundreds of media outlets were invited to witness what he called the unveiling of the truth—what was, in reality, a public execution.

Two years ago, countless people had seen Lisa Macken—five months pregnant—jump to her death. The case drew enormous attention, especially since the police had never solved it. Over time, the incident only continued to fester.

The moment news broke that the case would be reopened, the plaza flooded with people. Shouts rose like waves.

In the audience, my father-in-law supported my mother-in-law, who refused to sit down.

My silence back then had dealt them a devastating blow. They'd urged Chris to divorce me—only to be refused. The resentment had never faded.

Now, realizing Chris's painstaking intentions, my mother-in-law wept uncontrollably.

"Do you know how I've lived these past two years?" she screamed. "You venom-hearted animal! I wish I could tear open your chest and see whether your heart is black!"

My father-in-law patted her back, his eyes hollow with grief.

Lisa had been entrusted to them by a close friend. There was no blood relation, yet she had been closer to them than a biological daughter.

I watched everything through the glass, choking on sobs that made no sound.

At Chris's signal, a helmet-like device lowered over my head. Hundreds of fine silver needles sprang out and pierced directly into my scalp.

In an instant, it felt as though hundreds of leeches were sucking at my flesh. The tearing pain forced screams from my throat.

Chris listened to my shrill cries, excitement flickering in his eyes.

"Sir," one of the technicians said nervously, "her body is too weak. If we don't administer nutrients first, this could be fatal."

"Absolutely not!" Chris snapped, eyes blazing with malice. "Inject adrenaline. Let her die after the memories are extracted!"

The technicians hesitated, but under his authority, they could only comply. A syringe of adrenaline was pushed into my body.

As the liquid surged through me, my entire being jolted into an unnatural state of stimulation.

The memories buried deep inside began to churn.

…

At Lisa's grave, Chris had already been kneeling for two hours.

I approached with flowers in my arms. Looking at Lisa's smiling face in the photo, my eyes reddened.

Just two days before her death, we'd gone shopping together.

As I bent to place the flowers down, Chris suddenly snatched them from my hands and smashed them into my face.

"Don't stain my sister's grave!"

I trembled, bitterness lodged in my throat.

"Chris… about Lisa's death, I'm hurting more than anyone…"

The words only enraged him.

Without warning, he dragged me to the ground. My head slammed hard against the gravestone, blood instantly staining the engraved letters.

Yet, he showed no mercy. He pressed me against the icy stone, roaring in my face.

"Jenny, my sister died because of you! And you dare cry here like this?

"She was on the phone with you for ten minutes before she died. What did she say? Who was the killer? Speak!"

Faced with his relentless accusations, I stopped struggling. My gaze went empty as I stared at Lisa's photograph.

The projected memory fell briefly into darkness.

But the crowd in the plaza erupted.

"What kind of act is this? Crocodile tears—do you think we're fools?"

"A vicious woman like you should die to atone!"

Their fury blurred into noise as agony tore through my head again.

After Lisa's death, I thought Chris would abandon me.

Instead, he treated me with even more care.

He defied my in-laws and close friends alike, willing to turn against everyone for my sake.

True or not, that trust felt like warmth in the dead of winter. I was deeply moved.

So when Chris said he wanted a child, I agreed without hesitation.

Those days became the happiest period of my marriage.

But the moment I was told I was pregnant, the illusion shattered.

I took the water Chris handed me and drifted into unconsciousness.

When I woke, I was bound to a cold metal bed.

I struggled wildly, screaming his name.

Blinding lights flared on. Chris opened the iron door and walked in. The gentleness he once wore was gone—his eyes were as cold as if he were looking at a corpse.

"What did my sister say to you on that phone call?"

In that moment, he tore away his final mask.

I smiled bitterly. I'd anticipated this, yet my heart still clenched painfully, leaving me almost unable to breathe.

"Fine," he said coldly. "If you won't talk, we'll see whether your mouth is tougher—or my methods are."

As he spoke, he lifted my shirt, his fingers tracing my abdomen while a chilling smile spread across his face.