My Errant Wife Goes Mad After I Was Butchered

The day before my wedding anniversary with my wife, I was brutally murdered.

My dismembered body was tossed into the river.

My wife, however, was celebrating her lover's birthday, immersed in passion and joy.

When she realized that she hung up on my last desperate call for help, she lost her marbles.

She almost choked the culprit who had murdered me, crying and begging on her knees for my forgiveness.

But I already died. No matter how much she regretted it, I couldn't come back to life.

1

I died, and it was a horrible death.

My body was sawed into pieces.

And there were whip marks and signs of all sorts of abuse all over me.

Before getting butchered, I tried calling Ashlee Bradford, the wife I trusted and loved more than anything, for help.

I bit down on the pain of the ironware hitting my leg and dialed my emergency contact, my fingers numb and trembling.

Meanwhile, I kept praying in my heart, "Ashlee, pick up the phone, come on."

That was my only hope, as Ashlee had promised that she would answer my call as soon as I rang her up.

Yet, the call was mercilessly dismissed. At the same time, I was caught.

The infuriated murderer crushed my fingers and then grabbed a kitchen knife, slicing right into my carotid artery.

Blood gushed out like a fountain.

He hacked into me like he was chopping pork, doing it over and over until he cruelly dismembered me.

Before I died, I had only one worry.

"What about my wife, who loves me deeply, and our newborn child?"

With such obsession, my soul slowly drifted back home.

The lights at my home were bright, completely different from the dark and gloomy warehouse where I spent my final moments in this world.

I greedily gazed at the warm and bright home.

Tomorrow would be the third anniversary of my marriage to Ashlee.

Now that I was dead, I couldn't help worrying about how heartbroken Ashlee would be.

But then, I saw a man walk out of the kitchen.

He had a gentle smile, in the blue apron that I usually wear when cooking.

He was humming a tone in joy, a plate of food in his hand. When he turned around, I saw a face I recognized all too well.

He was Davion Velez, the impoverished student whom I had been supporting, and my wife was his teacher.

I was somewhat dumbfounded, and the guess in my mind brought forth a suffocating pain.

At my home, the atmosphere was romantic, a stark contrast to the dark and bloody warehouse where I met my end.

Davion took off the apron and I saw the white high-end suit he wore beneath it, which was completely inconsistent with his impoverished background. Instead, he looked like a wealthy gentleman from a privileged family.

Her face was clean and smooth, while mine was battered after torment.

I was gasping for breath, my body shaking uncontrollably.

I once mistakenly answered Ashlee's phone call, and I had long known about this suit.

I thought it was the gift that my wife prepared for me for our wedding anniversary. Little did I expect it would be worn by her student.

My wife, who I believed...