My Hypocritical Wife
Every morning during the crowded subway ride, I would sketch clients' floor plans in my notebook; the rustling of the pen across the paper was my sole hope for a stable life.
That afternoon, I sat at the folding table in my rented room, revising drawings, when suddenly a piercing alarm shattered the oppressive air like a sharp blade.
At first, I thought it was a routine drill at the construction site next door, until a whiff of burning filled my nostrils and thick smoke seeped in through the door crack only then did I realize something was terribly wrong: the building materials store next door was on fire.
The crackling of the wooden stairs being devoured by flames grew closer, the heat scorching my skin until it ached.
I instinctively backed toward the window, only to be struck in the calf by a falling beam.
The sharp pain spread immediately; I collapsed to the floor, watching the flickering flames crawl up the curtains.
Despair, like icy water, gradually drowned my heart.
At that moment, the door was forced open just a crackit was Viola Scott.
She wore the cream-colored dress I had given her last month, its hem stained with soot and ash.
The tips of her hair were singed yellow by sparks, and loose strands clung to her sweat-soaked forehead.
"Quick, come with me!" Her voice was hoarse, like sandpaper scraping, as she raised a towel drenched in cold water and suddenly pressed it over my mouth and nose.
I wanted to push her away, let her run firstshe was so small and frail, usually unable even to twist open a bottle cap; how could she possibly lead me out of the fire?
But her grip on my arm was ironclad, her knuckles whitening with exertion, her strength far greater than I had ever imagined.
"Don't just stand there!" she hissed, dragging me toward the door.
Just as we were about to step out the door, the beam overhead fell again.
She instinctively shoved me toward the corner of the wall, yet the fallen plank pinned her back.
I watched helplessly as the flames crawled up her skirt, the orange-red tongues licking her skin.
Her screams were swallowed by the thick smoke, gradually weakening until they disappeared amid the crackling fire.
When the firefighters broke in, I held the unconscious Viola Scott. Her clothes were reduced to burnt rags, her skin horribly scorched.
My hands and body were stained with her blood and ash, my consciousness fading amidst the agonizing pain and choking smoke.
When I woke again, I was lying in a hospital bed, my lower leg encased in thick plaster, my body wrapped in gauze. Every movement painfully tugged at the wounds, forcing me to grit my teeth.
A nurse entered carrying medicine, and upon seeing that I was awake, she whispered, "You've finally awakened. You were unconscious for an entire day."
I struggled to sit up, anxiously asking, "What about Viola Scott? How is my wife, Viola Scott?"
The nurse's eyes darkened. She set down the medicine and said, "Your wife is still in the ICU fighting for her life. Seventy percent of her body is burned."
"70%" My head buzzed, as if struck by a heavy hammer, "I have to see her. I must go see her!"
I pulled the needle from the back of my hand and was about to get out of bed, but the doctor who had rushed over stopped me: "You can't go now. The ICU requires a sterile environment, and you need to rest. Once her condition stabilizes, they will let you see her."
I sat on the bed, staring at the stark white ceiling, tears streaming uncontrollably down my face.
Viola Scott loved beauty so deeply; on ordinary days, she'd be upset for hours even if she accidentally scraped a bit of skin.
Now her entire body was woundedhow much pain must she be enduring?
When the nurse handed me the phone, its screen was filled with missed calls and messages. I turned on my phone and saw that a flood of news had already taken over the feed.
The headline, "Newlywed wife rushes into the fire to save her husband, suffers severe burns all over her body," dominated the trending lists on every major platform.
The accompanying video captured by a passerby showed the exact moment Viola Scott threw herself over me to protect me.
The comments were filled with blessings and sympathy for Viola: "She is so heroic, I hope she will be fine!"
Someone also set up a donation link, and in just a few hours, the amount raised exceeded one million.
My phone were overwhelmed with calls; relatives, friends, even former clients sent messages asking about the situation. Reporters blocked the hospital ward's entrance, cameras raised, eager to interview me.
I sat by the window, watching the red light flickering at the ICU entrance, feeling utterly helpless for the first time.
Viola Scott's medical bills were astronomical.
The modest savings I had gathered over several years of work were barely enough to cover even the smallest expenses before the daily ICU bills.
When my friend Kevin came to see me, he hesitated as he looked at my distressed face and said, "Eric Lincoln, everyone online is paying attention to Viola Scott's situation right now. Why don't you start a livestream? Maybe you can raise enough money for the medical bills."
I was momentarily stunned. A livestream? To expose my family matters to the public and allow strangers to judge? That felt utterly unfamiliar to me.
But thinking of Viola still suffering in the ICU, I gritted my teeth and nodded.
During my first livestream, I sat on a bench in the hospital corridor, burn scars marking my face, my voice choked with tension and sorrow.
Looking into the camera, I didn't know what to say, only repeatedly whispering "Thank you all," clumsily showing the hospital payment receipt and Viola Scott's diagnosis certificate.
I thought no one would pay attention, yet the gifts on the screen kept streaming in someone sent a "rocket," others left encouraging messages: "Keep going, you will get better!" "If you don't have enough money, tell us, we'll help you raise it!"
That day's livestream surpassed two million viewers, and the fundraising amount soared like a rocket.
The next day, I officially registered an account named "Eric and Viola Forever" I hoped that Viola and I could always depend on each other.
In the days that followed, I livestreamed every day, sharing Viola Scott's condition and treatment progress: today, the doctor said her wounds were beginning to heal; tomorrow, the nurse said she could open her eyes...
Internet users were incredibly supportive; some sent Viola imported burn ointments, others shared their own recovery experiences, and medical professionals among them proactively reached out to the nation's leading burn specialists to help formulate a treatment plan for Viola.
My follower count soaredfrom a few thousand at first, to tens of thousands, then hundreds of thousands, and finally millions.
Walking down the hospital corridor, I would occasionally be recognized; someone would whisper, "Look, that's the owner of 'Eric and Viola Forever.' His wife is truly remarkable."
Three months later, the doctor told me that Viola Scott had finally emerged from life-threatening danger and could be discharged.
When I heard the news, I was live streaming. Facing the camera, I smiled for the first time, though my eyes welled up with tears.
Over those three months, I raised nearly ten million in medical fees through live streaming, which not only covered all of Viola's treatment expenses but left a substantial surplus.
I moved from my previous rented room to a luxury apartment downtownbright and quiet, ideal for Viola's recovery.
I replaced the electric bike I had ridden for five years with an SUV. This will make it much easier to take Viola Scott for follow-up checkups in the future.
Before, I was a little-known designer whose name no one even recognized, struggling every day for a few orders; Now, I have become what people call an 'internet celebrity influencer.'
Commercial collaborations come to me unsolicitedendorsements, live sales, brand promotionsand my income is dozens of times what it was before.
I believed life was finally turning for the better. Viola Scott and I could continue to depend on each other, just as internet users wished.
But on the day Viola Scott was discharged from the hospital, looking at her face wrapped in gauze, I felt not a shred of joy within me.
I was still frightened when the doctor removed the gauze.
The left side of her face was nearly completely disfigured; the skin had contracted tightly, and dark red scars crawled across her cheek like a grotesque centipede.
A deep furrow lay beneath her eye, and the eyes that once shone like stars now appeared dull and lifeless.
Viola Scott sat before the mirror, and when she fully beheld her reflection, she cried out with a heart-rending scream.
She snatched the glass of water from the table and hurled it to the ground, shards scattering everywhere.
"I don't want to live anymore! I might as well be dead!" She covered her face, her body trembling uncontrollably.
I walked over, wanting to hold her, but she pushed me away: "Don't touch me! Do you think I'm ugly too?"
I was stunned, opening my mouth but unable to find the words I didn't think she was ugly, yet I couldn't deny that she looked like a completely different person now.
After that day, Viola Scott locked herself in her room and refused to come out.
Every day, I left food outside her door, knocked softly, and whispered, "Viola, it's time to eat."
There was no response in the room, only the occasional sound of crying.
When I changed her dressing, she would turn her back to me, wrapping herself in the blanket, refusing to let me see her face: "Go out, I'll change it myself."
I tried to comfort her: "The doctor said your scars can be repaired. After a while, we will undergo skin graft surgery. Once it's done, you'll be like how you were before."
She said nothing, only wrapped herself tighter in the blanket.
I knew these words deceived no one, not even myselfthe doctor had privately told me that Viola Scott's burn injuries were too severe, and even after the skin graft surgery, she could never fully recover to her previous state.
What pains me even more is that the warmth that should exist between husband and wife has long since vanished between us.
We've been married for a year, but only in name; we have never been husband and wife in reality.
Whenever I tried to get close to herholding her hand or embracing hershe would pull away and say, "I'm trying to conceive now; I must maintain a good condition and cannot be distracted."
At first, I believed her.
I thought she was a cautious woman, especially careful for the sake of the child.
I took folic acid with her, read books about trying to conceive alongside her, and even turned down many social invitations to come home early every day, hoping to spend more time with her.
But as time passed, I couldn't help but begin to doubt.
She never accompanied me to pre-pregnancy checkups. Every time I suggested going to the hospital, she would find an excuse to decline: "I've been busy with work lately; let's discuss it later."
She also never told me about her ovulation period.
She seldom even slept in the same bed as me.
She always said she was a light sleeper and didn't want to disturb my rest, so she set up a small bed in the guest room and usually slept there.
She often worked late into the night and sometimes traveled on business. Each time she left, she refused to let me see her off at the airport and rarely called me.
Whenever I reached out, she would say she was busy or that the signal was poor, ending the call after a few brief words.
I had a vague feeling she was hiding something, yet watching her gentle and thoughtful waysremembering she avoided giving me cilantro, prepared late-night snacks when I worked overtime, and stayed by my side when I was illI convinced myself I was merely imagining things.
It was only after that devastating fire, when she threw herself into saving me, that I abandoned all my doubts completely.
I believe she must love me; otherwise, why would she risk her life for me?
But after leaving the hospital, she sank deep into the agony of her disfigurement and remained cold and distant toward me.
I hired the best psychiatrist to help her escape the shadows, but she refused to leave the house.
When the doctor arrived, she locked herself in her room, refusing to see anyone.
I also engaged a top scar revision specialist and devised a detailed treatment plan, yet she merely glanced at it and tossed it on the table: I'm still a monster!
I carefully tended to her every day, afraid of upsetting her, yet she was always cold and distant toward me.
I grew more and more exhausted, yet increasingly clear-headed this marriage was a lie from the very start.
I finally summoned the courage and asked her for a divorce.
That night, I placed the simmering pork rib soup outside her door and knocked.
"Viola, let's get a divorce."
Silence stretched on in the room for so long that I thought she wouldn't respond.
Then, her stifled sobs came through, filled with hurt and anger: "Why? Eric, I ruined my appearance for you, and now you want to abandon me? Have you despised me all along?"
"It's not because of your face." I took a deep breath, my voice trembling slightly, "We've been married for a year. Whether you have feelings for me, you know that better than anyone."
The next morning, I placed the signed divorce agreement on the dining table.
Viola Scott's parents arrived soon after; it was Viola who called them.
As soon as Lily Clark entered, she saw the divorce agreement on the table, snatched it up, and threw it at my face: "Eric Lincoln, you ungrateful wretch! My daughter nearly died saving you and is now disfigured, and you just want to leave her?"
David Scott stood aside, his face pale as he pointed at me, saying, "Our Viola Scott must have been blind to marry a thankless wretch like you! If I had known what kind of man you were, I never would have allowed her to marry you."
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