A Special Cut
Ever since my husband returned from his trip to Vietnam, he seemed like a completely different person. He used to be cruel and rough, but now he was gentle, attentive, and brimming with affection.
That was until one night, when I woke up and was horrified to see him standing at the kitchen counter. Resting on the counter were his head, tongue, eyeballs, and a still-beating heart. He held a meat cleaver, muttering to himself, "Where should I start fixing this?"
Suddenly, the disembodied tongue on the counter screamed, "She's seen us!"
I jolted awake with my heart pounding and my back soaked in cold sweat. It was only a dream, but it left me deeply unsettled. What terrified me even more was the empty space beside me in bed. My husband, David Sterling, was gone.
From the kitchen, I could hear the heavy, rhythmic thwack of a knife hitting a cutting board. Too scared to turn on the light, I fumbled in the dark and grabbed a baseball bat for a shred of courage. David used to hit me with it, and it hurt like hell. I figured if he had turned into something monstrous, at least the bat might protect me.
Clutching the bat, I tiptoed toward the kitchen. The room was pitch black, save for a solitary shadow hunched over the counter. The frenzied chopping echoed through the silence, each strike feeling like a blow to my own chest.
The nightmare flashed vividly in my mind. Terror froze my body in place, and my only coherent thought was a desperate urge to run. My legs wobbled as I slowly edged backward, but my slipper squeaked against the linoleum.
Instantly, the chopping stopped.
The kitchen fell dead silent, leaving only the sound of my ragged breathing. I quickly clamped a hand over my mouth and nose. Through the darkness, the shadow moved toward me, step by deliberate step.
"Chloe, why didn't you turn on the light?"
The fluorescent bulb snapped on, flooding the living room with warm light. David stood by the switch, looking at me with genuine puzzlement.
I swallowed hard. "I heard noises in the kitchen, so I came to check. What are you chopping?"
He smiled, his eyes looking remarkably soft. "Didn't you say last night you wanted pork wontons? I'm prepping the filling."
His gaze drifted down to the bat in my hands. The smile faltered, and his voice took on a strange, eerie edge. "Honey, what's with the bat?"
Memories of his brutal beatings flashed through my mind. My grip loosened, and the bat clattered loudly against the floor. I let out a nervous laugh. "Nothing. Just... nothing."
He didn't press the issue. Under my wary gaze, he turned back to the kitchen and resumed the heavy, rhythmic chopping. Blood-red meat tumbled across the counter. David chopped with intense force, sending dark splatters into the air. A few drops hit his brow, but he didn't seem to notice or care.
I watched him for a moment, my unease growing by the second, before I finally fled back to the bedroom. Buried safely under the blankets, my chilling dread began to ease.
Ever since the trip, David had been acting bizarrely out of character. He had stopped hitting me entirely and had become oddly caring. He never used to cook; making meals had always been my job. Now, he was like a man possessed, whipping up elaborate dishes every single day. At first, I worried he might be trying to poison me so he could remarry, but after two weeks of eating his food, I was perfectly fine.
I really had mentioned craving pork wontons yesterday. Maybe I was just overthinking everything.
Still, who chops wonton filling at 3:30 in the morning, standing in the pitch dark? Something felt deeply wrong. I decided I should tell him to wait until morning so he wouldn't wake the neighbors.
I got out of bed and reached for my slippers, only to freeze. They were stained with dark red blood, the spots glaringly obvious against the faded fabric.
That blood wasn't mine.
The chopping in the kitchen abruptly stopped. David appeared in the doorway, still holding the meat cleaver. He stared at me with dark, unreadable eyes.
I gasped, and the slipper fell from my hand. As he stepped into the room, the metal of the cleaver gleaming in the dim light, I dove back under the covers and hugged my head in sheer terror.
The mattress sank slightly beside me. I felt his cold breath graze my ear.
"Chloe, dinner's ready."
"The wontons are cooked. They're best when they're hot, so come eat."
The steaming wontons had perfectly chewy skins and a fragrant pork filling that burst with savory juice at every bite. Before we got married, I used to love wontons. But I hadn't had them in ages—I didn't know how to make them myself, and David never let me eat out. He controlled all our money, including my own paycheck, handing me a meager twenty dollars a day for groceries. Every single cent had to be accounted for, or he would beat me.
Now, as the hot broth filled my mouth, it seemed to unlock something broken inside me. Tears began to stream down my face.
David sat across the table, smiling faintly. Every so often, he would ask, "Does it taste good?"
I kept eating and nodded. "Delicious."
But then I glanced over and noticed his bowl and chopsticks were completely untouched. A sudden realization hit me: he hadn't eaten a single thing in days.
I paused with my chopsticks hovering in the air. "Aren't you eating?"
He didn't answer the question directly. His dark eyes remained fixed on my face as he murmured, "This is prime... pork. I picked it out specially. You'd better finish it, honey."
I froze. Wait—had he even bought pork recently?