The Price of My Bloody Silence

Gage had Bipolar Disorder. After every time he hit me, he would send a remorseful transfer of ten thousand dollars. I never fought back. I just silently collected the funds, covering the bruises with a thick layer of foundation. My best friend, Sasha, called me sick and begged me to get a divorce. I checked my account balance and forced a cold, calculated smile. “Not yet,” I told her. “The pig isn’t fat enough to butcher.” Until the day he punched me in the stomach, and I lost the baby.

1 “Deposit alert. Ten thousand dollars.” The voice assistant’s mechanical sound echoed in the empty living room, jarring and loud. I spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva. Metallic. It tasted like rust. Gage sat across the room on the sofa, his head buried in his hands. Shame and regret were woven into the tangled mess of his hair—the result of him frantically clawing at his scalp during his latest episode. “I’m sorry… Naomi, I’m so sorry… I just can’t control myself…” His voice was a choked sob, trembling like a dead leaf in the wind. I didn’t say anything. I just quietly got up from the floor. My knee was throbbing, a searing pain where I’d hit the coffee table corner. Probably bruised deep purple. I shuffled to the mirror in the foyer. My left cheekbone was swollen. The clear imprint of five fingers was stark, a deep, angry crimson. Gage hadn’t held back this time. He really meant to kill me, or rather, the “sick” version of him intended to. I picked up the concealer and layered it on, thick coat after thick coat. The liquid foundation was cool, a shock against my inflamed skin, and the sudden temperature change was enough to bring my mind back into focus. I heard Gage’s heavy footsteps behind me. He wrapped his arms around me from behind, burying his face in the crook of my neck. His hot tears dropped onto my collar, making me flinch. “Please, hit me, scream at me… I’m a monster…” “It’s okay.” I stared at my reflection, forcing a perfect, forgiving, almost Madonna-like smile. “I know you’re sick. I don’t blame you.” Gage broke down again, weeping like a small child caught stealing. He pulled out his phone again. “Deposit alert. Ten thousand dollars.” That made twenty thousand dollars for the evening. One punch, twenty grand. Worth it. My salary at the office was barely four thousand a month, and I had to endure my boss’s bad breath and demanding clients. Here, at home, I just had to grit my teeth through a few minutes of pain to make three months’ wages. The math always worked out in my favor. Gage Harrington was an heir to old money, a factory owner’s son. Money was just a number to him. To me, it was freedom. It was my life. 2 Gage was asleep. Lashing out, especially with such unrestrained hysteria, was clearly exhausting. I covered him with the duvet, staring at his sleeping face, which even in repose seemed clouded with a lurking darkness. When he wasn’t in the throes of an episode, Gage was objectively handsome. High cheekbones, a sharp nose, and a pair of eyes that could look devastatingly tender. Who would ever guess that a wild animal was caged beneath such a perfect facade? I closed the bedroom door, walked to the balcony, and lit a cigarette. I’m not a regular smoker. I only indulge when the aching is too intense to let me sleep. My phone screen glowed. A text from Sasha. “Still alive?” I took a screenshot of my bank balance and sent it. She was silent for a moment before sending a long, furious voice note. “Naomi, are you out of your mind? Do you have some kind of victim complex? Twenty thousand dollars buys your silence? Don’t you know domestic abuse is a zero-tolerance game? Zero times or a million times? What are you going to do when he kills you? Spend your few million in the afterlife?” Sasha’s anger was harsh, but I knew it came from a place of love. She was the only person who knew what Gage was doing to me. I blew a stream of smoke into the night air, watching the vapor dissipate. I typed back: “Almost.” “Almost what?” “The pig is almost fat enough.” Sasha replied with a string of ellipses, clearly convinced I was beyond help. I wasn’t crazy. I was lucid. More lucid than anyone. I touched my stomach. It was flat, soft, and currently devoid of any life. But I needed there to be one. Gage’s episodes were escalating. First, it was just throwing things. Then, pushing. Now, it was full-force punches. The frequency had also ramped up, from once a month to once a week. I knew the tipping point was coming. Once we crossed that line, I might actually end up dead. But I couldn’t leave yet. The Gage of today, remorseful as he was, wasn’t quite broken enough. His guilt quota hadn’t reached the figure I needed. I wanted more than a couple of thousand dollars in pocket change. I wanted all of it. Or, perhaps, his life. 3 The preparations were nearly complete. I’d bought the stage blood online—movie quality, realistically viscous, even with a faint, sickening iron smell. As for the “fetus.” I’d sourced a specimen model through some specialized channels. It was tiny, palm-sized, a barely formed chunk of purple-black tissue that was terrifying to look at. I hid it in the deepest freezer drawer, triple-bagged in black plastic. Every time I opened the fridge for milk, I felt that cold mass staring at me. This was insane, I knew. But to hunt a beast, the hunter must be madder than the beast. This Friday was Gage’s birthday. As was tradition, he would drink. Alcohol was a deadly cocktail with his medication, especially mixed with the kind of drugs I planned to use. But I’d bought him the best Bordeaux I could find, a bottle of Romanée-Conti. It cost me a fraction of the money I’d saved from his “guilt transfers.” An investment, I told myself. There had to be a cost. Gage returned at seven that evening. He seemed to be in good spirits, holding a large Hermès shopping bag. “Happy birthday, Naomi.” I blinked. “It’s your birthday.” Gage smiled, walking over to kiss my forehead. “I know, but I wanted to give you a gift. As long as you’re happy, I’m happy.” For a split second, I felt a familiar pang of disorientation. If you could ignore the violent nights, Gage was, in many ways, the perfect husband. Wealthy, romantic, and gentle. Too bad he was a psychopath. I unwrapped the gift—a limited edition Birkin bag. “Do you like it?” he looked at me, full of eager expectation. “I love it,” I smiled, nodding. “Let’s eat. I made your favorite sweet and sour pork ribs.” At the dinner table, candlelight flickered. Gage drank one glass. Two. Three. His eyes started to glaze over, his face flushed, and his voice became loud and booming. The chemicals were starting to take effect. It wasn’t just the wine. It was the “seasoning” I’d added. A psychoactive agent, designed to amplify mood and induce aggression. Gage had been taking his prescribed Lithium, but I had long since replaced his pills with innocuous-looking Vitamin C tablets. The real poison was in the wine. “Naomi…” Gage suddenly slammed his glass onto the table. Red wine splattered across the white linen tablecloth like an exploding blood flower. “You look down on me, don’t you?” His eyes had changed. That familiar, murderous, and violent glare had returned. The show was starting. 4 I feigned panic, shrinking back in my seat. “Gage, what’s wrong? How could I look down on you?” “You do! You think I’m a freak! You think I’m just sponging off my family!” Gage lunged up, knocking his chair over. He rounded the table, advancing toward me one step at a time. Instead of retreating, I stood my ground, my hands clamped tightly over my abdomen. That action was the catalyst he needed. “What’s in your belly, huh? Is it a bastard?” That line of delusion was unexpected. His paranoia was escalating faster than I’d anticipated. But it worked perfectly with my plan. “Gage! Are you insane? It’s your child! I’m three months pregnant!” I shrieked, my voice sounding shrill and desperate. “My child? Hahahaha! I can’t have children! I’m sick! I’m a lunatic! How could a lunatic have a child!” Gage roared, like a mad boar losing its mind. He charged, grabbed my hair, and slammed my head against the wall. BAM! It hurt. A deep, blinding pain. But I held the scream in. I collapsed to the floor, curling into a tight ball. “Don’t hit me… please… don’t hurt the baby…” I wailed, my voice fading. But my plea didn’t stir his conscience. Instead, it was like a stimulant, driving him further into madness. “Just die! All of you, just die!” Gage lifted his foot and kicked my stomach hard. Once. Twice. I felt the terrifying illusion of a broken rib. But I had to wait for the hardest one. Now! I violently squeezed the blood bag I’d taped inside my dress. Warm, viscous liquid immediately gushed out, soaking my skirt and streaming down my legs to the floor. Bright red blood spread across the white tile, a horrifying and visceral sight. I let out one final, piercing scream, then pushed the pre-prepared “fetus” out from beneath my skirt. It lay in the pool of blood, a small, dark purple, terrifying chunk of tissue.