Ten Years A Prisoner, Now Free

Ten Years A Prisoner, Now Free

Gavin

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The first thing I felt was a single tear tracing a path down my temple. For ten years, my body had been a prison, a vessel for a consciousness trapped in a silent, black ocean. My fiancé, David Chen, stood over my bed, his face a mask of shock. "Sarah?" he whispered, his voice trembling, right before he confessed, "If it weren't for that accident... Emily would have been my fiancée. We wronged her." These words confirmed the haunting whisperings from my coma. I had felt everything: the burning dyes Emily tested on me for her "revolutionary" fabrics, my body becoming a roadmap of her cruelty. I heard David agree to it all, authorizing the transfer of my fortune to fund her reckless ventures. He had called her his true love on a stage lit by my money, while I lay in a managed care facility, a footnote in my own story. Now, he looked at me with false sincerity, "Just one more treatment, Sarah... After this, I promise, I'll love you. I'll take care of you forever." His belated affection was worthless, his promises ash. Why was he suddenly trying to mend things? Why claim he loved me now, after a decade of betrayal? Another tear escaped, not for sorrow, but for a cold, hard fury that had simmered for a decade. It was the last tear I would ever shed for him. That night, a fire started in Emily Miller's celebrated design studio. It wasn't an accident. It was a message.

Introduction

The first thing I felt was a single tear tracing a path down my temple. For ten years, my body had been a prison, a vessel for a consciousness trapped in a silent, black ocean. My fiancé, David Chen, stood over my bed, his face a mask of shock.

"Sarah?" he whispered, his voice trembling, right before he confessed, "If it weren't for that accident... Emily would have been my fiancée. We wronged her." These words confirmed the haunting whisperings from my coma.

I had felt everything: the burning dyes Emily tested on me for her "revolutionary" fabrics, my body becoming a roadmap of her cruelty. I heard David agree to it all, authorizing the transfer of my fortune to fund her reckless ventures. He had called her his true love on a stage lit by my money, while I lay in a managed care facility, a footnote in my own story.

Now, he looked at me with false sincerity, "Just one more treatment, Sarah... After this, I promise, I'll love you. I'll take care of you forever." His belated affection was worthless, his promises ash.

Why was he suddenly trying to mend things? Why claim he loved me now, after a decade of betrayal?

Another tear escaped, not for sorrow, but for a cold, hard fury that had simmered for a decade. It was the last tear I would ever shed for him. That night, a fire started in Emily Miller's celebrated design studio. It wasn't an accident. It was a message.

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