Mark never lied to me.
He brought me to his villa, a house as grand as any palace, and gave me a beautiful room filled with dolls and new clothes. He hired the best doctors to treat me and the kindest nannies to care for me.
He taught me how to use a spoon, patted my back awkwardly when I had nightmares, and told me stories I couldn’t understand. Everyone in the villa treated me with reverence. No one ever called me “the idiot” again—only “Miss Sharon.”
My life felt as though it had been pulled from a filthy swamp and placed upon a soft cloud.
But my mind remained foggy. I couldn’t learn complex words or remember intricate rules. All I could do was follow him, like a stray puppy trailing its rescuer.
Wherever he went, I followed. During his meetings, I’d wait on the rug outside the door. When he ate, I sat across from him, slowly mimicking his movements. And when he slept, I curled up on the little blanket outside his bedroom.
Once, he tried locking me in my room. I cried and banged my head against the door until, wearily, he opened it and gathered me into his arms.
“Sharon, you’re such a little troublemaker,” he sighed, though his voice held no blame. I’d bury my face in his chest, breathing in his clean scent, feeling utterly safe.
Mark was my entire world.
That life lasted about a year.
Then, without warning, my world collapsed.
I didn’t understand what had happened. I only knew that one day, many people came to the villa. They took away all the beautiful things. Mark locked himself in his study and didn’t come out for three days and three nights.
When I was hungry, I scavenged in the kitchen. When I was tired, I slept outside the study door.
On the fourth day, the door opened.
Mark emerged, his face pale as paper, a shadow of stubble along his jaw. The eyes that once held stars were now utterly lifeless.
He saw me, paused, then crouched down and patted my head.
“Sharon,” he said, his voice terribly hoarse. “The family… we’re bankrupt.”
I didn’t understand what “bankrupt” meant. I only saw the light in his eyes had gone out.
We moved from the grand villa into a small, damp apartment. The place was old, with paint peeling from the walls. Mark’s legs—broken during whatever had happened—kept him in a wheelchair, silently staring out the window.
All the people who once bowed to him vanished. In their place came thugs who pounded on our door, demanding money. They smashed the little furniture we had, pointing at Mark and cursing him.
Every time, I’d rush forward, spread my arms wide to shield him, and snarl like a mother hen protecting her chick. They’d laugh, call me an idiot, and shove me aside.
But Mark would always pull me behind him, shielding me with his broken body.
Once, protecting me, a creditor smashed a bottle against his head. Blood streamed down his temple, staining half his face. Terrified, I cried and tried to lick the wound, tasting salt and iron. He laughed—the first time since it all happened—and with his uninjured hand, wiped my tears. “Don’t cry, Sharon. It doesn’t hurt.”
But I knew it did.
From that day on, I learned to care for him. I learned to cook, though I always burned the rice to mush and charred the vegetables black. I learned to dress his wounds, though I always hurt him. He never complained. He’d finish every bite of the inedible food I made and praise me: “Our Sharon is so amazing.”
In those darkest, most hopeless days, we had only each other.
I thought it would always be like that.
Until the day I pushed him home from the hospital with his new medicine. We found our apartment ransacked. Mark, clutching the bag of money meant for his treatment, was surrounded by creditors.
“Mark, don’t push your luck! Pay up today, or we’ll sell your little idiot to the brothel!”
I hid behind Mark, trembling.
He clutched the money to his chest, eyes bloodshot as he roared, “Come at me! Leave her alone!”
“Oho, protective, aren’t we?” the leader sneered, reaching out to grab me.
In that moment, I saw Mark’s eyes change—a look of despair, madness, and utter ruin. He threw himself from his wheelchair and lunged forward, sinking his teeth into the man’s wrist.
Everyone was stunned by his ferocity.
In the chaos, we escaped.
That night, we were penniless and homeless. Mark pushed his wheelchair, leading me to the riverbank. The night wind was cold, and I shivered. He took off his only decent coat—the thickest one he had—and draped it over my shoulders.
For a long, long time, he stared into the dark river.
Then he turned to me with a smile so gentle it broke my heart.
“Sharon, I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t protect you anymore.”
With that, he steered his wheelchair straight toward the river.
My mind went blank with a deafening buzz. I didn’t understand death—only that Mark didn’t want me anymore. He was going to abandon me, just like my parents had.
A terror I’d never known seized me. Screaming, without a second thought, I jumped in after him.
Icy water swallowed me instantly. I couldn’t swim, just flailed helplessly. Before everything faded, I saw Mark moving with frantic, desperate energy, swimming toward me, grabbing my hand.
We were pulled out. Mark held my soaked body and sat by the riverbank all night, shaking harder than I was.
As dawn approached, he held me tighter, as if trying to press me into his very bones.
“Sharon,” he murmured over and over in my ear. “I was wrong. I’ll never leave you again. For you, I’ll live. I’ll live.”
From that day, Mark changed. The deadness in his eyes was replaced by a burning fire. He began working desperately, taking any dirty, exhausting job he could find.
In three years, he went from a penniless cripple to rebuilding a business empire. We moved back into a villa even larger and more beautiful than before. His legs healed. He could stand again, hold me in his arms once more.
He spoiled me like a princess. Everyone said Mr. Mark valued his idiot more than his own life.
I thought, after all the bitterness, only sweetness remained.
I was wrong.
The real nightmare was just beginning.
