Chapter 7
The black ink was slowly being smeared by the blood, and on the paper, there was just a faintly written sentence: “No matter whether you’re my mother or not, I hate you.”
My best friend, humiliated beyond words, lay on the floor, oblivious to the blood now staining her clothes. She held her stiff daughter tightly, her hands trembling as she beat her head in anguish.
Over and over, she muttered that helpless apology. “I’m sorry.”
Perhaps this was the first time she had ever apologized to her daughter, but who cared? What
ifference did a late apology make?
The child who left with hatred would never hear those words again.
“Verne, what good are these words now? Everything that’s happened, you caused it with your own hands.”
“If you had known this would happen, would you still have done it?”
“Why do you always wait until you’ve lost everything to regret?”
Each sentence I spoke seemed to push my best friend closer to madness. She scrambled to her feet, somehow mustering the strength to lift her daughter, then stormed out of my house without a backward glance.
Since that day, she had gone mad. On the streets, she would grab anyone and ask, “Have you seen my daughter?”
But no one paid her any attention.
Losing her sanity, she abandoned everything–her belongings, her identity. No one would help h back home, and people avoided her at all costs. She ended up scavenging through trash to survive.
But
But what did it matter to me? It was all her choice.
I found my daughter a well known psychologist to help heal her emotional wounds.
The last time I saw my best friend was in the underground parking lot of the counseling center.
At first, I didn’t notice her–dressed in rags, huddled in the corner, her long hair wild, her body
mbling uncontrollably.
Phaped
But when I opened the car door, she suddenly charged at me like a madwoman, and only then did I clearly see her face.
Her face was wrinkled, her hair completely gray, her eyes dull and clouded. She looked like an elderly woman on the brink of death. Muttering Incoherently, she said, “Someone wants to harm my daughter.”
“My daughter is a precious heiress. I’ll kill them all.”
“This little b**** is so lucky. I won’t accept it!”
“Little b****, go to hell. Little b****.”
istening to her rambling, I furrowed my brows.
She tore at her clothes, and when she saw me, her eyes lit up, “How could you be here! What have you done to my daughter?”
“You *****! You tortured my daughter. May you never rest in peace!”
Those words sounded more like she was cursing herself.
I scoffed, “Verne, how have you not yet learned to regret?”
“Pretending to be crazy won’t help you. Can your daughter come back to life?”
“You should face reality already.”
I turned to leave, intending to ignore this madwoman.
1
But to my shock, she blocked my car, her eyes bloodshot, her face twisted with rage as she screamed at me. “It’s all your fault! You did this!”
“I want you to pay for my daughter’s life!”
My heart skipped a beat. Her expression was too deranged.
I gripped my phone in my pocket, “Verne, what do you want to do? There are cameras everywhere!”
But those words seemed to push her over the edge. Without hesitation, she grabbed a nearby fire Extinguisher and, her voice frenzied, she shouted, “My daughter should have lived like a princess! That bastard child you gave birth to deserves to die!”
hy should she have a better life than my daughter?”
“I want you all dead! All of you must pay for my daughter’s life!”
Seeing the crazed light in her eyes, I instinctively stepped back, bumping into the car with a thud. I had no escape.
Verne’s eyes were bloodshot, and she muttered, almost to herself:
“You won’t admit it, but it’s all your fault.”
“It’s all because of you that she’s dead!”
