He Killed Me After Amnesia

Today marks the fifth anniversary of my marriage to Andy Sinclair, and also the third year since his car accident induced amnesia. The crystal chandelier in the foyer cast a cold, harsh light, glinting off the white envelope he handed me. "Sign it." Andy Sinclair's voice was utterly devoid of warmth, a stark contrast to the man who had draped his coat over my shoulders on that rainy night three years ago. My fingertips traced the words "Divorce Agreement" on the envelope; the thin calluses on my skin scraped against the paper, sending a sharp sting. This was the ninety-ninth letter. The first letter arrived on the seventh day after his hospital discharge, complaining that the porridge I cooked was too bland, unfit for his taste. The second letter came half a month later; he complained there was dust on the windowsill in the Study and that I had not cleaned it thoroughly enough. The third letter accused me of walking too quietly, which made him feel suffocated. The excuses became increasingly ridiculous—from "the curtains are too dark" to "the roses in the vase bloom too briefly," and then to "your perfume gives me headaches." I have thought about giving up, but every time I see the cruel scar on his left temple, I am reminded of the glaring pool of blood at the accident scene. The doctor said he suffers from selective amnesia, erasing all memories between us, including me, his wife. "The reason." I lifted my head, my gaze meeting his fathomless eyes, motionless and unreadable. Andy Sinclair frowned, as if troubled by some vexing memory. "Genevieve said you wore dresses of the same color yesterday." Genevieve Bennett, his childhood sweetheart, who had remained by his side as his "caretaker" since the car accident. I recalled the encounter with Genevieve at the mall yesterday; she wore an off-white dress, while the one I wore was a birthday gift from Andy Sinclair three years ago. "That is my skirt." I whispered, my voice trembling slightly. Andy Sinclair's expression darkened instantly. He stepped forward and gripped my chin with a strength that threatened to crush my bones. "Fiona, know your place." His breath fanned across my face, faintly smelling of disinfectant. "In this house, if Genevieve dislikes it, then you must not do it." The sharp pain from my chin stung my eyes red, yet I stubbornly refused to shed a tear. For these three years, I have long since grown used to his coldness and humiliation. He made me kneel on the ground to polish his custom leather shoes because Genevieve claimed there was a scratch on them. He forced me to stand outside in the pouring rain to reflect on my mistake because I accidentally spilled Genevieve's coffee. He even made me give up the flower shop I had run for five years because Genevieve said the scent triggered her allergies. I obeyed everything, only to remain by his side, waiting for the day he would remember me. "What punishment awaits me this time?" I closed my eyes, my voice calm as though speaking of someone else's plight. Andy Sinclair released his grip and pulled a document from his suit pocket, tossing it in front of me. "Genevieve's longtime housekeeper, Sophie, is suffering from kidney failure and urgently needs a donor." His tone was offhand, as if speaking of something trivial. "The doctor said your compatibility rate is very high." I snapped my eyes open and stared at him in disbelief. "Kidney donation?" My voice quivered uncontrollably, "That is an organ, not a gift to be given lightly!" "This is the price you pay for offending Genevieve." Andy Sinclair looked down at me with disdain, his eyes full of contempt. "If you sign the divorce papers and agree to the kidney donation surgery, I can give you a sum of money that will ensure you never have to worry about food or clothing again." I looked at his cold face and suddenly laughed—laughed until tears streamed down my cheeks. It turned out that my persistence over these three years was nothing more than a transaction he could settle with money.