He Chose the Poison

Today is my twenty-fifth birthday. The sunlight outside the window was beautiful, falling upon the white roses on the windowsill, their petals shimmering with a tender glow. I cooked a bowl of noodles, and just as I set it on the table, the doorbell rang. Thinking it was the delivery person bringing the cake, I opened the door without hesitation. The moment the door creaked open, a low, fierce bark suddenly surged toward me. It was a massive dog, its eyes wild and savage; it broke free from its leash and lunged at me. I had no time to evade as it pinned me harshly to the ground. Its sharp teeth ripped into my arm and neck, the burning pain spreading through every fiber of my being. I struggled to cry for help, but my voice was drowned out by the barking dogs. I don't know how long it lasted before someone scolded and pulled the dog away. I lay on the ground, covered in blood, my vision blurred as I saw Peter Lancaster. He leaned against the doorframe, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, his face utterly devoid of concern, only a near-cruel smirk. "Kate, happy birthday." He spoke, his voice cold and distant. I wanted to question him, but my throat no longer formed words—only faint breathy sounds escaped. He pulled out his phone, played a video, and held it up before my eyes. On the screen, he and Nancy Sullivan clung to each other, kissing passionately in the dim light. Nancy's smile was seductive, her eyes brimming with challenge, as if proclaiming her victory over me. "See it now?" Peter Lancaster crouched down, his fingertips lightly tracing my bleeding neck, the touch cruelly deliberate. "Nancy and I are together. You'd better take the hint and leave." My heart constricted as if gripped by an icy hand, the pain so intense I nearly suffocated. I gazed into his eyes, once filled with tenderness, now only coldness and contempt remained. It dawned on me that those past deep affections had become the sharpest knives of all. Suddenly, I realized that Peter Lancaster no longer loved me. Nancy Sullivan had become his new "remedy," capable of soothing the madness in his eyes, but mercilessly thrusting me into the abyss. My consciousness grew hazy, and the last image I saw was Peter Lancaster's back as he turned away—resolute and indifferent. When I awoke again, I found myself lying in a hospital bed. Thick bandages were wrapped around my arm and neck, every movement tugging painfully at the wounds. The hospital room was very quiet, with only the ticking of the machines. My thoughts uncontrollably drifted back to the past—those days when Peter Lancaster and I relied on each other for survival.