The scene quickly descended into chaos.
In the end, Samantha was arrested.
Charges of abduction, assault, and obstruction of justice were pressed.
I imagined that no matter how many suspicions she had before, being locked up in a prison would finally bring clarity.
Looking at Samantha now, I felt only a complex mix of emotions, with no sense of satisfaction. I didn’t even have the desire for
revenge.
1/3
Chapter 8
+15 Bonus
Samantha sat on the ground, muttering to herself, “No, he can’t be dead… He’s just a poor country boy, finally recognized by the
Henderson family. He was starting a better life. How could he just die?”
As the morning light filtered in, she bit her lip as if making a decision. “I will make sure everything returns to the right track!”
I couldn’t help but find her reasoning absurd.
What did she mean by “returning to the right track“? What did Samantha expect my ending to be?
Did she expect me to return from Sylvoria Prison, covered in ugly scars or possibly permanently disabled? Did she want me to sit in a wheelchair and watch her and Isaac live together happily?
And then, she would force me to sign the divorce papers under her humiliation and make me disappear from her life forever?
Was that my right path? Was I really that worthless?
Isaac, carrying a winter blanket, came in after receiving approval. He comforted her, “Joziah’s body that day was real. You’re too
innocent. I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to accept it, so I chose to let you misunderstand.
“I thought, someday, you would come to your senses. At that point, you would truly accept Joziah’s death.”
As he spoke, he covered her with the blanket.
Samantha shivered slightly.
In reality, her prison conditions were far better than mine.
In my three years, I’d lacked food and clothing. I was roasted under the sun in the summer, with ice forming in my hair during the winter. And that was nothing compared to the endless humiliation, verbal abuse, and physical torture.
In the end, I collapsed in a pool of blood, my body broken beyond recognition.
Isaac continued speaking softly, reminiscing about their childhood together.
But Samantha sat there, numb, like a puppet. Her stiff hand caressed the blanket, and she muttered absently, “Did Joziah get water when he was thirsty? Was there anyone to bring him food when he was hungry?
“When he was hot, did anyone give him ice to cool down? When he was cold…” She curled up into the blanket. “Did anyone bring
him a blanket?”
At that moment, bitterness flooded my heart.
What was Samantha doing now? Wasn’t it too late for regrets?
The police knocked on the window, reminding her of the unfinished business.
My body was still in the morgue, nearly decomposing.
The office had repeatedly urged her to sign the authorization for the release of my body.
