His Audio Novel

My marriage with Calvin Jones was once like a lukewarm bowl of plain water. So dull that you might have thought it would stretch on like this until old age. Calvin had a habit of listening to audio novels before bed. At first, I didn't pay it much mind, assuming it was just his way of decompressing from work. Until one late night, when I got up and passed by the study. Behind that half-closed door, what came through wasn't tender dialogue, but harsh violent shouts and explicit sexual descriptions. A chill ran through me, and I stood frozen outside the door for a long while. Those words were like poisoned ice picks, piercing tightly at my chest. The next morning, I tentatively brought up the matter. Calvin was tying his tie, his tone nonchalant: "They're just fictional stories, don't make a scene." "But the content is so terrible," I clenched the edge of my shirt, "could it... affect your mindset?" He looked up, a flicker of impatience in his eyes: "Wendy Scott, I'm an adult; I know the difference between reality and fiction." That conversation ended bitterly. My once calm life felt as if a stone had been cast in, stirring ripples of unease. In the days that followed, Calvin spent longer and longer listening to those novels. Sometimes he even wears headphones, listening anytime and anywhere—at the dining table, on the sofa. Occasionally, I catch a glimpse of the titles on his phone screen. "Deadly Bedmate" and "The Vicious Wife's Revenge"—each one exudes a sinister malice. I protested once again. But he flew into a rage, accusing me of interfering with his personal interests. "You never used to care about these things," he said, throwing down his chopsticks. "Why have you become so unreasonable now?" I looked at his unfamiliar profile and suddenly felt that the man I've shared a bed with for three years was drifting farther and farther away from me. Anxiety grew wildly, like vines. I began watching his every move, constantly feeling that the scenes from those novels were quietly seeping into our lives. During the company's annual health check, my fingers trembled uncontrollably as I held the report. Traces of banned substances were found in my stomach acid, along with an old fracture on the left side of my rib cage—the doctor said it was at least six months old. I clearly hadn't suffered any serious injury, nor had I ever been exposed to banned drugs. Suddenly, the novel Calvin Jones has been listening to recently flashed through my mind. I frantically went through his audiobook records as if I were losing my mind. In one of them, "Silent Torment," the female lead was drugged by her husband for a long time and, during an argument, was shoved, causing a broken rib. The drug components and the fracture location matched my report exactly. Cold sweat instantly soaked my back. I grabbed the report and rushed over to Calvin Jones. When he saw the report, there was a momentary flash of panic in his eyes before he quickly regained his composure. "Maybe there was an error in the physical exam," he said, snatching the report and flipping through it. "Or maybe you accidentally ate something bad. The rib fracture could be from a previous sports injury." His explanation was full of loopholes, yet I couldn't find any evidence to refute it.