Chapter 3

The voice belonged to my art lecturer in college, Henry Letrell. A few classmates with whom I got along well came with him too. The moment they entered, all of them were stunned. "Did a burglary just occur here?" Henry looked at the bruises on my arm and the swelling on my cheek. His eyes were full of concern. Upon noticing the four bodyguards watching us from a distance, he didn't ask any questions. Instead, he quietly instructed my classmates to help clean up the studio. When the guards weren't paying attention, he secretly slipped me a document. He said, "I signed you up for the International Youth Art Contest. This is the letter confirming your participation. Your talent deserves to be seen by the world." He sighed and went on, "Did something happen between you and Thomas? I've watched you as you grew up. I know you're someone who loves deeply. But true love isn't possession and destruction. If someone loved you, they'd support you." Yes. This was not love. Thomas didn't love me. That was why he destroyed my chance to make a name for myself. In contrast, he did everything he could to pave the way for Irene. … Later, Henry went out to buy me new art supplies. After seeing them off, I hid the confirmation letter in the storage room, which was the most obscure place I had. The following days passed in a gloomy and suffocating atmosphere. In the end, Irene's hands couldn't be saved. The nerve necrosis led to a severe systemic infection. If they didn't amputate her arms, she wouldn't be able to survive. The day she lost her hands, Thomas cried like the world had collapsed. Irene's parents rushed over from their hometown. They cursed and scolded me without restraint, insisting that I was the jinx who had ruined their daughter's life. Thomas never said a single word in my defense. I had donated my hand nerves. But to them, if anything happened to Irene's hands, it was still my fault. After being discharged, Irene vented all her resentment on me. One day, she complained that the food I cooked tasted awful. The next day, she grumbled that the house wasn't cleaned properly. If I resisted her unreasonable demands, she would cry, throw tantrums, or threaten suicide. Thomas would immediately respond by beating me up. I could only endure the abuse in silence. For the competition and for my chance to escape this hell, I had to endure it. During the day, I was the maid they beat and scolded as they pleased. At night, I sneaked into the storage room once they fell asleep. In that narrow and dim space, I painted like a madwoman under the weak glow of a desk lamp. That was my only hope for a different life. Unfortunately, I had underestimated Irene's paranoia. When she, who should have been asleep, stood at the door of the storage room and let out a sharp scream, I knew that things wouldn't end well for me. Thomas rushed over, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the competition confirmation letter. He howled, "Nadine, look at Irene's state! How dare you even think about competing and rising to new heights? Dream on!" Right before me, he set fire to the artwork I had spent countless sleepless nights working on. "No!" I lunged forward, frantically trying to save my drafts. All I got was a hard kick in the chest. The rage and despair built up over two lifetimes finally exploded. I yelled, "Thomas, I did nothing wrong to either of you! But you… You conspired to deceive me! You wanted my hands, my talent, and my life! Is Irene your sister or your secret girlfriend? "You made me sacrifice my hands, which were the most vital thing to an artist, for your lover! Haven't I done enough? Tell me! Just how far do you intend to ruin me?" For a brief moment, guilt and panic flashed across Thomas' face. But then, Irene suddenly walked toward me. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and for the first time, she humbled herself before me. She cried, "I'm sorry, Nadine. It's all my fault. I shouldn't have been so petty. I shouldn't have wanted what was yours. Please don't be mad at Thomas anymore, okay?" Her apology came too abruptly and unexpectedly. I quickly decided that I needed to put my guard up. In the next second, Irene violently slammed her exposed stump against a corner of the wall with her back turned toward Thomas. "Ah! Why did you push me, Nadine? I already apologized. Why can't you forgive me?" Irene wailed. Thomas ran over to hold her in a panic. His eyes were bloodshot as he turned to accuse me, "Why, Nadine? Irene is already suffering so much. Why did you provoke her and then push her on purpose?"