My Wife Refused to Sign the Divorce, So I Snapped

I laughed without the slightest hint of remorse.

“You’re a man too, Chester! How could you do something like that to him?” Faye demanded, her voice slicing through the tension in the room.

“You said it yourself, Faye. There’s no divorce between us. Only death can separate us,” I said.

I closed the distance between us and then taunted, “If you can’t kill me, then I’ll have to kill both of you.”

For a moment, the only sound was the soft drip of blood.

It hit the floor, sharp and steady, echoing in the stillness.

Only then did she notice my hand, cut from when I had been smashing things.

She loosened her grip on my shoulders slowly.

“Good cut,” Faye said. “I was going to teach him a lesson anyway.”

She moved with that practiced precision I knew so well.

Faye carefully lifted my hand and dabbed at the wound. When she applied iodine, she blew on it the same way she always did. She’d been in the habit of tending my injuries like that for a long time. Back when my mother beat me until my body was a raw bruise, she could only find rubbing alcohol to disinfect my wounds. Even though she doesn’t use alcohol anymore, she’s still careful not to hurt me more.

Her palm, streaked with blood, left a print across her face.

“Stop it. It’s filthy,” Faye said, tilting her head away.

She didn’t even bother to ask whether I meant the blood or her.

Instead, she called for the butler, Mr. Blackwell, and handed him the first-aid kit.

There was a pause while the room reorganized itself.

The boy’s name was Harvey Robinson. When I tried to investigate further, all traces disappeared. I realized then that Faye was protecting him.

If I hadn’t acted quickly, I might never have found out his name.

With that, I confronted Faye. “You like him that much that you’ve cut off my access to all his messages?”

She let out a slow, measured sigh. “Chester, what’s the point of clinging to her?”

I flung the divorce papers at her again and demanded, “Sign them, and I’ll let you be. I won’t go after your baby boy.”

Faye made the decision that settled everything. The agreement didn’t last two seconds in her hands before she tore it into pieces and scattered the confetti across the floor.

“I told you that between us there is no divorce, and only death can separate us.”

I only laughed.

Everything changed in an instant. A wine bottle came crashing down on Faye's head. Red liquid streamed down her cheek, and it was impossible to tell if it was wine or blood.

I snatched the dagger from the table and charged.

She clamped onto my wrist, bracing herself against the downward force.

“Faye.” I was within a centimeter of her face. “Do you really think I won't?”

We held each other in that tense breath. Our hands trembled, neither yielding.

“Sign the divorce, or one of us dies," I growled.

But the standoff didn’t last.

Faye let out a soft, almost amused laugh and shifted the pressure inward. My hand, still clasped in hers, plunged the dagger deep into her shoulder. Blood splattered across my face.

She made a promise I could not accept. “I told you, I won’t let you die before me.”

“Faye!” I snarled, my teeth baring.

She loosened her hold and, with a single resigned breath, said, “Go ahead, then. Do it, Chester."

Everything blurred. I forcefully wrenched the dagger free. She muffled a groan; blood smeared my face. The metallic smell pulled my thoughts back to that rain-soaked night in senior year.

I could barely stand. I staggered, turned, and stumbled toward the door, numb and dazed.

Then she was there. With a single loud thud—the sound of one knee hitting the floor—she was suddenly by my side, moving quickly and steadily, catching me.

“Don’t be afraid. It’s okay. I’m here,” Faye whispered, stroking my cheek.

I watched the beads of blood trickle from her brow, each drop landing on my face.

Even with her own wound, her eyes were on me.

No worries for herself and only concern for me.

I saw it all again. During the countless nights my mother beat me until my skin split, she held me like this. She took the blows meant for me—bottles, stools, even a cleaver—using her back as a shield.

Amid my mother’s angry shouts, Faye would grin at me and say, “Don’t be afraid. It’s okay. I’m here. I’m with you.”

The memory hit me hard. We had once embraced in blood and kissed in a downpour.