Chapter 3 — May You Be Forever Alone

A pervasive, bone-chilling cold was the only sensation left in the air. Nian retreated step by step until her back collided with the wooden coat rack in the foyer. The decorative glass vase perched upon it toppled over, shattering against the floor with a piercing, brittle crash. Upstairs, a bedroom door was flung violently open. Van Sinh rushed down the staircase, wrapped in a silk bathrobe and seething with incandescent fury.

Yen, what kind of psychotic episode are you having in the middle of the night? Is anyone else in this house supposed to sleep?

He berated her loudly as he took the steps two at a time. Yet, upon reaching the lower landing, his gaze fell upon Nian, who sat limp and trembling violently amidst the scattered shards of glass, pointing a shaking finger toward the entryway.

Dead… she is dead.

Nian could not even form a coherent sentence; tears and snot streamed uncontrollably down her face. Van Sinh’s irritated expression instantly dissolved into sheer bewilderment. He strode forward and roughly ripped away the filthy, grease-stained automotive cleaning rag that had been thrown over my face. Under the dim, yellow glow of the ceiling fixture, my features were finally exposed to the harsh light. The dark purple pustules covering my skin had already begun to putrefy into a grotesque decay. Dried trails of dark brown blood, which had long since crusted over, marred my facial orifices. My limbs had stiffened into the rigid, unyielding coldness of cast iron. Van Sinh’s pupils violently contracted to pinpricks. A deafening roar echoed through his mind, leaving him as shattered as a man struck by lightning. His knees buckled under him, and he dropped heavily onto the tiled floor. With trembling hands, he reached out to touch my neck, pressing his fingertips desperately against my carotid artery. There was not the faintest trace of a pulse beneath his frantic touch.

Yen.

Van Sinh’s voice shattered, fracturing into an unnatural, grotesque pitch. In a blind panic, he fumbled for the phone in his pocket, his fingers shaking so violently that he botched the password three times before finally managing to dial the emergency services.

Hello, send an ambulance. Someone in my residence has collapsed.

The dispatcher’s calm voice inquired from the other end:

Sir, does the patient currently have a heartbeat and respiration? Are the pupils dilated?

Van Sinh screamed into the handset like a madman.

I do not know. I do not know. You must hurry and come here. She is only sleeping. She is merely asleep.

His words tumbled out in a chaotic, disjointed stream, utterly incapable of providing any vital signs. The phone slipped from his numb fingers and clattered onto the floor. Snapping out of her terror at the sound, Nian snatched a bag from the floor and attempted to slink along the base of the wall toward the front door. Van Sinh whipped his head around. He lunged forward, tackling Nian to the ground, and wrapped both hands brutally around her throat. His eyes bulged in their sockets, heavily engorged with a web of crimson capillaries.

What on earth did you put into that hotpot? What kind of poison did you feed her?

Gasping for air, her eyes rolling back in her head, Nian clawed desperately at his forearms. Hearing the commotion, housekeeper Hu rushed out from the back quarters and burst into tears at the horrifying sight. She hurried back to the servants' quarters and retrieved a piece of paper I had once tucked beneath the pages of a calendar. Returning swiftly, Hu slammed the paper down against Van Sinh’s bloodshot, distorted face.

Master, look at this. Read it with your own eyes. This is the medical diagnosis confirming the madam’s severe, potentially fatal allergy to chili. She told you long ago that she could not consume spicy food. You were the one who forced it upon her.

The sharp edge of the paper sliced cleanly across the corner of Van Sinh’s eye. Stunned, he stared as the white sheet drifted downward to the floor. The dense black lettering printed upon it felt like the blades of a meat grinder, tearing his sanity to shreds. The wail of approaching sirens heralded the simultaneous arrival of the police and the ambulance. The forensic investigator stepped inside, sweeping the powerful beam of a flashlight across my motionless form. He did not even bother opening the emergency medical kit. Pausing only to examine the livid postmortem rigidity settling into my neck, he pulled a stark white shroud over my face.

Resuscitation is unnecessary.

The investigator’s tone remained entirely devoid of emotion. Time of death exceeded eight hours ago.

The police securing the scene immediately confiscated the dashcam footage from the vehicle parked in the courtyard. The recorded video feed was instantly mirrored onto the massive flat-screen television in the living room for all to witness. On the screen, Van Sinh could be seen tossing my body into the trunk just as one might discard a bag of garbage. The heavy lid slammed shut with a sickening thud, snapping my fingers. Inside the darkened trunk, my body was battered mercilessly against the interior as the car moved, staining the plastic floor mat with fresh blood. Van Sinh stared fixedly at the moving images. He watched his own cruel reflection shove a doctor down a flight of stairs, watched the vicious kick he had delivered directly to my ribs. Abruptly, he raised his hand.

Crack.

A resounding, violent slap echoed across his own face. Immediately followed by a second, then a third. Blood began to seep from the corners of his mouth and gums as his cheeks swelled grotesquely. At that exact moment, the screen of the phone Van Sinh had dropped earlier illuminated. An automated, pre-scheduled message I had set before my death arrived precisely on schedule.

The countdown has returned to zero, and the life link has been severed. Van Sinh, may you embrace your own wretched garbage and remain utterly, eternally alone.

As Van Sinh gazed upon those words, a sound of unimaginable agony—a hollow, soul-crushing howl—ripped from the depths of his throat, breaking him utterly. Two female officers stepped forward and wrenched Nian’s arms firmly behind her back.