knew better. This wasn’t love. This was just another illusion, a desperate attempt to convince himself that he was the perfect
husband.
Maybe if he tried hard enough, he could erase the past. Maybe if he set the stage just right, I would return, and Tommy too, completing his picture of domestic bliss.
But what was the point?
I drifted into the basement, watching as the prisoners slowly woke. Their hands and feet were bound, their eyes filled with
confusion.
At the very least, Tristan hadn’t completely lost his humanity. He still brought them food and water. But every meal contained
traces of the maggots crawling out of my rotting corpse.
Even Jessica, who had once lived so far above the rest, had no choice but to swallow whatever was placed in front of her. Hunger
left no room for dignity.
Meanwhile, Tristan continued to pay the private investigators, urging them to search tirelessly for me.
He seemed to ignore the fact that my body lay just beyond the bedroom wall.
Every day, he cleaned the room where my corpse rotted, sweeping away the writhing mass of maggots, placing fresh flowers in the corners. But he never once touched my body.
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Chapter 7
Instead, he would stand there, staring at the decaying remains, a strange grin twisting his lips.
“Crystal, just wait. I have a surprise for you when you come back.”
He pointed at my corpse.
“I’ll leave this fake you right here, so when you return, you can see how ridiculous your little act was.”
His mind unraveled more with each passing day.
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One afternoon, he went to a kids‘ store and bought a few sets of children’s clothes. He cradled them in his arms, whispering to
them.
“Tommy, this is all your fault. If you had behaved, your mommy wouldn’t have left us. When she comes back, you have to
apologize properly.”
Clothes could be repurchased. Houses could be repainted.
But my Tommy–he was never coming back.
I watched as Tristan played his delusional games, putting on his performance, pretending to be a grieving father. The sight of it
filled me with scorn.
I thought this was how it would end. That he would waste away, lost in his own madness, until his body finally gave out.
But then, the police broke down the door.
Guns drawn, they stormed into the living room, where Tristan sat, rocking the tiny clothes in his arms, humming a lullaby.
“We received a report,” an officer barked. “Murder, corpse concealment, child abuse. Put your hands up and come with us.”
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