The straw that broke the camel’s back—and what finally shattered Mark and me—was a kitchen knife.
Andrea came to visit again that day.
Mark was handling business in the study, while she kept me company in the living room, watching TV. Peeling an apple, she handed it to me with a gentle smile. “Here, Sharon. Have an apple.”
I was about to take it when I saw the words float above her head:
*Stupid girl. You love copying Mark, don’t you? He’d give his life for you. So tell me… would you have the courage to scar your own face for him?*
Then she held out a sharp kitchen knife toward me.
“Look, Sharon. Isn’t this knife pretty?” she coaxed, her voice smooth as silk. “Mark says he loves brave girls most. If you just take it and give your face a little scratch—just one—he’ll love you even more. I promise.”
I stared at the blade, cold and gleaming under the lights, and shook my head in fear. “No… hurts…”
“It won’t hurt,” Andrea went on, tempting me. “Just for a second, and Mark will stay with you forever. He’ll never leave you. Aren’t you terrified he’ll abandon you?”
*Mark would abandon me…*
The words echoed in my mind like a curse.
I hesitated.
Just as I reached out, my fingers nearly brushing the handle, the study door swung open.
Mark walked out.
He saw the knife in Andrea’s hand. He saw my outstretched fingers.
His face turned ashen.
“What are you doing?!” he barked, his voice sharp.
Andrea immediately put on a startled expression, her hand trembling so that the knife clattered to the floor.
“Mark, it’s not what you think…” Her eyes welled up with practiced tears. “I was just peeling an apple for Sharon. She said… she said she wanted to learn how I do it. I was afraid she’d hurt herself, so I was putting it away…”
Above her head, the words scrolled frantically:
*Perfect! Mark hates nothing more than someone using his affection to harm themselves. This idiot is done for.*
I tried to explain, frantic, but my tongue felt thick and clumsy. I could only point at Andrea, stammering, “She… she told me…”
“Enough!” Mark cut me off. His gaze was cold as ice. “Sharon, when will this stop? Is this really how you get my attention? By hurting yourself?”
*Sharon.*
He used my full name—something he only did when he was utterly furious.
My heart clenched as if caught in an invisible fist, squeezing so tight I could barely breathe.
“No… Mark…” I shook my head, tears streaming.
“I saw it with my own eyes. And you still want to lie?” The look he gave me brimmed with disappointment and disgust. “How did I never see how manipulative you could be?”
*Manipulative?* I didn’t know what that meant.
I only knew he didn’t believe me.
That day, he lost his temper with me for the first time.
He smashed the most expensive vase in the living room, then locked me in the dark room—the place I feared most.
No matter how much I cried, no matter how hard I pounded on the door, he ignored me.
The next day, Andrea came to see me.
Or rather, she stood outside the door, her voice a soft, victorious murmur. “Sharon, don’t blame Mark. He’s just so tired. Taking care of someone like you… it’s exhausting.”
*See the difference? I can make him happy. You? You’re just a burden.*
From that day on, Mark’s attitude toward me plummeted.
He stopped holding me. Stopped smiling at me. Stopped even talking to me.
Once, he fought with me again because of Andrea.
Blinded by rage, he shoved me to the ground, got in his car, and sped away.
Outside, rain poured down in sheets. I just sat there in the middle of the cold, wet road, watching his taillights vanish into the downpour.
At that moment, the words above my head flashed blood-red:
*WARNING! WARNING! Male lead has abandoned female lead in a hazardous area! Approaching vehicle! Female lead must seek shelter immediately!*
I didn’t understand the words. I only knew Mark had abandoned me again.
Curling up on the ground, I sobbed until my chest ached.
A truck, out of control, careened toward me. Its blinding headlights made me squeeze my eyes shut.
At the last possible second, a black car swerved violently, slamming to a stop between me and the truck.
It was Mark.
He’d come back.
His car was crumpled, and he was hurt—blood trickled from a cut on his forehead.
But he scrambled out, ignoring everything, scooped me up from the ground, and crushed me against his chest.
“Sharon! Sharon, are you hurt?” His voice shook uncontrollably, raw with the terror of a near miss.
I didn’t answer him. I just cried.
“I’m sorry, Sharon. It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have left you… I’m sorry…” He apologized over and over, pressing my face into the damp fabric of his shirt.
I could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, fast and frantic, as if trying to escape.
I thought, after this brush with death, he would believe me again.
But I was wrong.
My forgiveness, my surrender, only bought me worse cruelty.
He locked me outside in a thunderstorm all night because Andrea said she was scared of the thunder and needed him.
He hit me for the first time because I clumsily spilled a bowl of soup Andrea had brought.
It was just a light slap, but it burned against my cheek like a brand, searing straight into my heart.
I covered my face, staring at him in disbelief.
He froze too, looking at his own hand, a flicker of regret in his eyes.
But Andrea, standing beside him, immediately covered her mouth with a gasp. “Oh, Sharon, don’t be angry with Mark. He didn’t mean it. It’s my fault. If I hadn’t come, you two wouldn’t be fighting.”
Above her head, however, the words were gleeful:
*Good! Mark, see? This is the useless burden you’ve protected all these years! All she does is cause trouble!*
In that instant, the regret in Mark’s eyes hardened into something cold and unyielding.
He didn’t apologize.
He just said to me, coldly, “Go to your room. And think about what you’ve done.”
