A Mother's Lost Decade

A Mother's Lost Decade

Bing Xialuo

5.0
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The oppressive silence of my home was a constant reminder of my twelve lost children. My husband, Michael, the man I loved, transformed into a monster, ripping each newborn from my arms with cold, absurd justifications. Every desperate plea for help I made-to family, friends, even strangers-was met with the same chilling betrayal. Michael merely showed them a mysterious photograph, and instantly, their sympathy vanished, replaced by a cruel consensus that I was the one who was mad, leaving me utterly abandoned in a ceaseless loop of pregnancy and loss. What dark secret did this single image hold that could turn every loving face against me, convincing them my babies' deaths were a delusion and not a horrifying reality? I was trapped, heartbroken, and consumed by the desperate need to understand why everyone believed his monstrous lies over my truth. Just as I plummeted into a final, desperate act to escape this unending torment, the 'nightmare' shattered, awakening me not to death, but to a shocking truth: my decade of anguish was a high-tech medical simulation, and the reality that awaited was stranger, and more hopeful, than anything I could have imagined.

Introduction

The oppressive silence of my home was a constant reminder of my twelve lost children.

My husband, Michael, the man I loved, transformed into a monster, ripping each newborn from my arms with cold, absurd justifications.

Every desperate plea for help I made-to family, friends, even strangers-was met with the same chilling betrayal.

Michael merely showed them a mysterious photograph, and instantly, their sympathy vanished, replaced by a cruel consensus that I was the one who was mad, leaving me utterly abandoned in a ceaseless loop of pregnancy and loss.

What dark secret did this single image hold that could turn every loving face against me, convincing them my babies' deaths were a delusion and not a horrifying reality?

I was trapped, heartbroken, and consumed by the desperate need to understand why everyone believed his monstrous lies over my truth.

Just as I plummeted into a final, desperate act to escape this unending torment, the 'nightmare' shattered, awakening me not to death, but to a shocking truth: my decade of anguish was a high-tech medical simulation, and the reality that awaited was stranger, and more hopeful, than anything I could have imagined.

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Other books by Bing Xialuo

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A Mother's Vengeance: Love Lost

A Mother's Vengeance: Love Lost

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The sharp pain in my son Timmy's leg was the start of it all. A snakebite. I rushed him to Mercy General, where my older son David worked as an ER doctor. He would save his little brother. But the moment I burst into the emergency room, collapsing with Timmy limp in my arms, a blonde nurse named Ashley Jones, David' s girlfriend, turned on me. She met my desperate plea for help with a cold refusal, demanding I fill out forms. When I begged her to get David, her eyes hardened. She shoved me, snarling, "Get in line like everyone else." She scoffed at my claims of being David' s mother, dismissing Timmy as a "little brat," even threatening to let him die. She stole my phone, smashing it when she saw the silver sparrow charm-identical to hers-on my keychain, screaming about David being a "cheating bastard." Ashley even called her brother Kevin, a brute, to deal with me. Other nurses and patients stared but did nothing as Ashley, ignoring Timmy' s fading breath, reveled in my anguish. She kicked my spilled purse, scattering my ID, and mocked my desperate pleas for help. She demanded I kowtow, to bow my head, begging for her mercy, while filming my humiliation on her phone. As Timmy' s lips turned blue, I swallowed my pride, head pressed against the cold floor, whispering, "I'm sorry. Please… help my son." But even that wasn't enough for the monster. She demanded I slap myself, ten times. It was then, as I raised my hand, that I saw Timmy. Still. Silent. He was gone. My son was dead. And in that moment, all my humiliation, all my fear, was burned away, replaced by a volcanic, white-hot rage.

Stolen Life, Stolen Style

Stolen Life, Stolen Style

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5.0

My eyes snapped open. The dorm room ceiling, with its familiar water stain shaped like a crooked smile, loomed above. Across the room, Brianna Jones hummed softly, applying makeup. She wore a cheap copy of my cashmere sweater. My heart hammered against my ribs. This wasn' t right. This was weeks ago. The memories crashed down: the Paris program acceptance, the "going away" party, the sickening taste, then absolute darkness. Brianna had poisoned me. I saw her smirk, remembered collapsing. Yet here she was, her reflection smiling sweetly in her compact mirror, her voice falsely cheerful. "Morning, sleepyhead," she chirped. This was the ambitious girl from a small town. My roommate. The one who wanted my life. I stared at her, the image of her malicious triumph at my party seared into my brain. The subtle digs, the way she' d implied I was the copycat, her constant imitation of my style, my social media. She' d meticulously cataloged me, then painstakingly isolated me, even turning away Liam, the hockey captain I genuinely liked. All my kindness burned away in the hospital bed I now only remembered. "You okay, Ava?" she asked, a tilt to her head. "You look like you've seen a ghost." My parents always told me I was too trusting, too eager to see the good in people. They were right. This inexplicable situation felt like a cruel joke, yet it was real. The date on my phone confirmed it. Several weeks before the party. Before she tried to kill me. I had a second chance. And this time, I wouldn' t be naive. I wouldn' t be kind to the snake in my room. This time, Ava Miller wouldn't be a doormat. This time, I would fight.

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The sterile white of the operating room blurred, then sharpened, as Skye Sterling felt the cold clawing its way up her body. The heart monitor flatlined, a steady, high-pitched whine announcing her end. Her uterus had been removed, a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding, but the blood wouldn't clot. It just kept flowing, warm and sticky, pooling beneath her. Through heavy eyes, she saw a trembling nurse holding a phone on speaker. "Mr. Kensington," the nurse's voice cracked, "your wife... she's critical." A pause, then a sweet, poisonous giggle. Seraphina Miller. "Liam is in the shower," Seraphina's voice purred. "Stop calling, Skye. It's pathetic. Faking a medical emergency on our anniversary? Even for you, that's low." Then, Liam's bored voice: "If she dies, call the funeral home. I have a meeting in the morning." Click. The line went dead. A second later, so did Skye. The darkness that followed was absolute, suffocating, a black ocean crushing her lungs. She screamed into the void, a silent, agonizing wail of regret for loving a man who saw her as a nuisance, for dying without ever truly living. Until she died, she didn't understand. Why was her life so tragically wasted? Why did her husband, the man she loved, abandon her so cruelly? The injustice of it all burned hotter than the fever in her body. Then, the air rushed back in. Skye gasped, her body convulsing violently on the mattress. Her eyes flew open, wide and terrified, staring blindly into the darkness. Her trembling hand reached for her phone. May 12th. Five years ago. She was back.

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