The Milk Trap

I stared at the warm glass of milk on the table. Condensation beads on the cup traced down its side, spreading a faint dark stain across the wooden surface. When Sylvia Hamilton brought it over, her face wore that familiar gentle smile. "Sergio, have a glass of milk before bed to help you sleep." I didn't touch it. I've witnessed this gentle kindness for a full three years. What once felt like salvation now chills me to the bone. This is the fiftieth time. I remember that number clearly. I first discovered she tampered with the milk six months after we got married. That night, I worked late into the night. When I came home, she was already asleep. On the living room coffee table sat a half-finished glass of milk, with an empty medicine box strewn beside it. I still remember the words on the medicine box clearly—potent sleeping aid, with mild hallucinogenic components. At the time, I thought it was just her own insomnia remedy; I didn't think much of it and casually tidied up the mess. It wasn't until a week later, when I drank the milk she handed me, that I sensed someone approaching in my drowsiness. It wasn't Sylvia Hamilton. The unfamiliar scent of perfume was completely different from Sylvia's usual woody fragrance. Clinging to my last shred of clarity, I pushed that person away; the next morning, only Sylvia was beside me. Her eyes were red-rimmed, as if she had suffered a grievous injustice. "Sergio, what happened to you last night? Did I do something wrong?" I looked at her innocent face and swallowed the question that hovered at my lips. Maybe I had misunderstood. That's what I told myself. But then, similar incidents kept happening one after another. She would secretly arrange for strange women to enter my hotel room while I was on business trips; At gatherings with friends, she would deliberately get me drunk, then have me pose for pictures with other women; she would quietly slip something into my milk, coffee, even my food. Each time I caught her, she would either feign innocence or break down in tears, saying she loved me too much and was afraid I would leave. I went from initial shock and confusion to exhaustion and numbness. I tried to communicate with her. I said we are married; if there are problems, we should talk them through calmly. She said I don't understand her anxiety. I said I would give her a sense of security. She said what I did was still not enough. After so many times, I no longer had the strength to communicate. I began deliberately avoiding the food and water she offered, trying to spend less time alone with her. But she always found a way. Just like now. "Why won't you drink it?" Sylvia Hamilton's voice came from behind me, carrying a subtle, barely noticeable urgency. I turned around and looked at her. Under the light, her face remained beautiful, her brows curved gently, yet I could clearly see the obsession lurking deep within her eyes. "I'm not thirsty." I said calmly. She stepped forward, lifting the glass of milk to my lips: "Have a little, I specially warmed it for you." The warmth pressed through the glass, but I felt a sudden coldness. I knew there was something added to this glass of milk again. The fiftieth time. That number pierced my heart like a needle. I no longer want to fool myself, nor do I want to continue this suffocating marriage. I didn't reach for the glass of milk; instead, I stood and walked to the kitchen, picking up a paring knife. Sylvia Hamilton's expression changed: "Sergio, what are you going to do?"