The Neglected Wife's Bloody Revenge Pact

A sharp, piercing scream shattered the dark abyss. Jenna's eyes snapped open. Her chest heaved violently as she sucked in massive, greedy gulps of air. Her hands flew to her throat, expecting to feel the hard plastic of the ventilator tube. Instead, her fingers brushed against her own warm, firm skin. Her blurred vision slowly snapped into focus. She wasn't staring at the stained ceiling tiles of the hospital. She was looking up at a massive crystal chandelier hanging from a vaulted ceiling. A heavy plastic toy car flew through the air. It slammed into the wooden nightstand right next to her head with a loud, cracking thud. Jenna flinched, her body jerking away from the noise. She turned her head. A five-year-old boy stood on the plush Persian rug. He was stomping his feet in a fit of rage. He wore a tailored, British-style children's suit. His face was an exact, miniature replica of Arthur. On the velvet sofa across the room, five-year-old Clio was rolling around, screaming at the top of her lungs. She was demanding a specific brand of Italian gelato. Jenna's brain short-circuited. Her hands gripped the silk bedsheets so tightly her knuckles turned white. She thought she was in hell, trapped in a twisted hallucination. Little Arthur saw that the woman on the bed wasn't moving. He marched over, lifted his custom leather shoe, and kicked the side of the mahogany bed frame hard. "Get up right now!" Arthur ordered, his voice dripping with disdain. "Go to the kitchen and make my pancakes!" The arrogant, demanding tone hit Jenna like a physical blow. It perfectly overlapped with the voice of the adult Arthur who had just unplugged her life support. Jenna's pupils shrank to pinpricks. Post-traumatic stress ripped through her nervous system. Her entire body began to shake uncontrollably. Her teeth chattered. She threw off the silk covers and scrambled backward. She tumbled off the edge of the mattress, her bare feet hitting the cold hardwood floor. She sprinted toward the master bathroom. "You look like a stupid clown!" Arthur laughed loudly behind her. Jenna slammed the heavy bathroom door shut and threw the deadbolt lock. The solid wood muffled the chaotic noise from the bedroom. She gripped the edges of the marble sink. Her chest rose and fell in jagged, uneven breaths. She slowly lifted her head and stared into the massive, gold-plated mirror above the vanity. The face staring back at her was young. The skin was full of collagen, devoid of the deep stress lines and the sickly, gray pallor of death. She raised a trembling hand. Her fingertips touched the cold glass, tracing the reflection of her own cheek. The physical sensation was undeniably real. She slammed her hand down on the faucet handle. Freezing cold water blasted from the tap. She cupped her hands, gathered the icy water, and splashed it violently onto her face. The biting cold shocked her system. It stripped away the lingering fog of the nightmare. This was real. She turned her head and looked at the marble nightstand built into the bathroom vanity—a small, elegant shelf where she often left things during her old morning routine. An early-model smartphone rested there, abandoned by her past self. She snatched it up and pressed the home button. The glowing screen clearly displayed the date and the year. It was exactly fifteen years ago. She had been reborn. She was back to the year the twins were only five, the year the seeds of her ultimate destruction were just beginning to sprout. Loud, aggressive banging vibrated against the bathroom door. Little Arthur was kicking the wood, screaming foul words that no five-year-old should even know. Jenna closed her eyes. The physical agony of suffocating to death, the sight of Arthur's cold smile, flashed behind her eyelids. Her stomach twisted into a tight, hard knot. When she opened her eyes again, the confusion and terror were entirely gone. They were replaced by a layer of frost so thick it could freeze blood. She grabbed a thick cotton towel and wiped the water from her face. Her movements were slow, deliberate, and absolute. She turned away from the mirror and walked toward the door. She reached out and wrapped her hand around the cold metal doorknob. The old phone remained in her other hand—she tucked it into her waistband absently, needing both hands free for what was coming. Outside, little Arthur was holding a heavy, expensive glass perfume bottle high above his head, ready to smash it against the wood. Jenna twisted the lock and yanked the door open. She stood tall, looking down at the son who held the bottle. Her eyes were dead, staring at him as if he were already a corpse.