Chapter 1 - The Nightmare Discovered
A wave of cold ran straight down my spine as I stared at my mother and sister sleeping peacefully on the dirty couch.
The sour smell of spoiled milk and unwashed dishes completely filled the living room.
I dropped the fresh pastries onto the floor and sprinted down the dark hallway toward our master bedroom.
My heart hammered aggressively against my ribs with every single step.
I pushed the heavy oak door open and froze in absolute horror.
The curtains were tightly drawn, blocking out all the natural sunlight.
My beautiful wife, Hannah, was lying on the mattress, her face dangerously pale and covered in cold sweat.
Beside her, our newborn son Owen was crying a weak, hoarse cry that proved he had been weeping for hours.
I rushed to the edge of the bed and gently touched Hannah's cheek.
Her skin was burning with a severe, unnatural fever.
"Hannah, please wake up," I begged, my voice cracking with pure panic.
She barely fluttered her eyes open, her gaze completely unfocused and distant.
I reached down to grab her hands, intending to pull her into a seated position.
That was when I noticed the dark, violent purple bruises wrapping completely around both of her delicate wrists.
Someone had forcefully restrained my wife to this bed.
I scooped Owen into my arms, relieved to feel his tiny heart still beating against my chest.
Suddenly, the bedroom door swung open behind me.
My mother, Patricia, stood in the doorway with a steaming cup of coffee in her hand.
"If looking after a baby feels this impossible for you, perhaps you should never have become a mother," she said with a cruel, mocking sneer.
I stared at her, feeling a blinding rage I had never experienced in my entire life.
"What did you do to my wife?" I screamed at the top of my lungs.
My sister Courtney peeked her head in from the hallway, chewing casually on a piece of gum.
"She was acting crazy, Ethan, so we had to calm her down for the baby's safety," Courtney lied smoothly.
I did not waste another second listening to their venomous excuses.
I grabbed my cell phone from my pocket and immediately dialed emergency services.
"Send an ambulance to my house right now, my wife is dying," I ordered the dispatcher.
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Patricia’s arrogant smile instantly vanished, replaced by a look of cold, calculating malice.
She walked over to the dresser, picked up a heavy glass vase, and smashed it directly against her own forehead.
