The Price of Blind Trust and Cruel Coldness Chapter 01
This April Fools’ Day, Willa—my husband Thomas Black’s confidante—staged a magic show.
I’d been pressured into being her special guest, tasked with assisting in her sawing-a-woman-in-half illusion.
“Jennifer, just lie down inside and relax. It’ll be a breeze.”
But the second I settled into the crate, I realized the prop blade had been swapped out for a real one.
I tried to speak—too late. The first blade sliced through the wood and bit into my flesh.
A scream tore out of my throat, raw and agonizing.
Willa stood beside the crate, grinning into the microphone. “Wow, Jennifer’s acting is incredible! It looks so authentic!”
The audience erupted in laughter.
Thomas’s voice cut through the noise from the audience rows, thick with unmasked disgust. “Jennifer, cut the drama. Stop embarrassing us all.”
The second strike landed. Then the third. Pain crashed over me until I could no longer even scream.
Blood seeped through gaps in the crate, dripping onto the stage beneath the spotlights.
Someone in the crowd murmured, “The props look insanely real.”
My son, Antony, sat in the front row, cheering excitedly. “Mom’s acting is awesome! This is so fun!”
I heard Thomas talking to his friend beside him. “That’s just how she is. Always faking things, jealous of Willa, desperate to steal the spotlight every chance she gets.”
I stared at them, drowning in despair.
I wasn’t pretending. I was really dying.
……
My spirit hovered above the stage, watching the crowd below.
My head rested at the end of the crate, my face drained of color from catastrophic blood loss. My eyes were blown wide, forehead slick with cold sweat.
Willa watched my unmoving body. Her smile faltered for a split second before she quickly forced it back.
She lifted the microphone, her tone sugary sweet for the audience. “Everyone, look at our guest! Her performance could rival any Oscar-winning actress!”
“Jennifer, wave and say hello to everyone!”
I didn’t move an inch.
Willa’s expression darkened slightly. She forced a playful little tongue flick. “Uh-oh, looks like Jennifer’s mad at me!”
Thomas and Antony, seated in the front, frowned.
Thomas leaned forward, his voice a sharp threat directed toward my body inside the crate. “Jennifer, what game are you playing? Cooperate with Willa right now. You’re ruining the entire show!”
Antony chimed in, clapping his small hands, childish and insistent. “Mom, why are you being stubborn? Willa’s talking to you! Wake up!”
My body remained motionless. My spirit screamed at them. “I’m not angry! I’m dead!”
But none of them could hear a word.
Seeing I wouldn’t respond, Willa offered the audience an apologetic smile.
She sighed, sounding helpless. “I’m so sorry, everyone. It seems Jennifer’s upset and refuses to play along. We’ll take a quick break and move on to our next trick!”
She gestured for two stagehands to carry the crate backstage. Thomas and Antony followed close behind.
The second they stepped out of audience sight, she rushed up to Thomas, eyes glistening, breaking into tearful sobs. “Tom, Jennifer humiliated me out there! I invited so many friends to watch my show!”
Thomas’s brows knotted tight. His icy gaze locked onto the crate holding my corpse.
He shouted toward it. “Jennifer, do you hear me? Get up this instant and apologize to Willa. Quit playing dead!”
Antony joined in, scolding me. “Mom, you ruined Willa’s magic trick! You’re mean! Say sorry to her!”
He kicked the crate hard. My corpse jolted with the impact.
Floating above them, my spirit cried out again. “I’m already dead! I’m not pretending! Just look!”
When I still didn’t stir, a flicker of genuine unease crossed Thomas’s face. He hesitated, about to step forward and check inside—until Willa grabbed his arm.
She snapped her fingers like she’d just solved a puzzle. “I get it now! Jennifer, you’re pulling an April Fools’ prank on me by faking death, aren’t you?”
That tiny spark of worry vanished from Thomas’s features in an instant. His face turned livid. “Fine, Jennifer. If you want to play dead, you can keep it up forever.”
He ordered a staff member to bring over the basket of small snakes used in the show. He knew I was terrified of reptiles.
A worker hauled over a large wicker basket filled with writhing snakes of all sizes.
Thomas hefted the basket and issued his threat. “Jennifer, you hate snakes more than anything. If you don’t get up right now, I’ll dump every single one into this crate.”
At the sight of the writhing snakes, my spirit shuddered in terror. I screamed at him again. “I’m dead! This isn’t an act! Thomas, please look inside!”
No sound reached his ears.
My lack of response pushed Thomas over the edge. He roared in rage. “Alright, Jennifer. Keep up the charade for as long as you want!”
Without hesitation, he upended the entire basket onto the crate’s surface.
The snakes immediately slithered toward every crack and crevice, squeezing inside. Soon they crawled all over my face, my hair, my body.
The blood pooling within the crate excited them; they twisted and writhed across my flesh.
I still didn’t move. Thomas’s scowl deepened. “Perfect. Stay dead if that’s what you want.”
He delivered a vicious kick to the crate, then stormed away with Antony.
My spirit watched their retreating silhouettes, overcome with crushing sorrow.
I’m already dead, Thomas.
How many times do I need to say it before anyone listens?