I Am Her

Everyone said that Quinn Scott loved me profoundly, even willing to sacrifice her life for me. At the height of that love, she swallowed sleeping pills, slit her wrists, severed all ties with family and me, and her parents publicly disowned her in the newspapers. Later, when she chased me, she tumbled down the steep slope behind the mountain, and her right leg was left with a lifelong impairment. But no one knew that as she lay on the ground, clawing at the dirt with her fingertips begging me to spare her, I crouched before her, my gaze utterly cold and devoid of warmth. In the end, I was the one who personally brought her back from the hospital and locked her on the second floor of the villa. This afternoon, the sunlight was glaring; Quinn Scott quietly wheeled herself onto the balcony. I carried the coffee over, the wooden floor scorching under the sun. She heard footsteps, her shoulders trembled lightly, and just as she was about to turn her head, I reached out and gripped her throat. "The balcony is windy—did I ever say you couldn't come?" My voice was low, almost swallowed by the cicadas' chorus. Her face flushed; she grasped the wheelchair's armrest, trying to pull back, but the wheel was caught in a gap, utterly stuck. Seeing her so trembling and fearful, a smirk curved at the corner of my lips, as if watching a lamb trapped in a snare. "Simon Lewis... please, let me go..." Her voice broke, laced with tears. "It was my fault back then. I'm willing to die, to pay with my life. Please let me die..." Hearing her say "death," my mood instantly turned icy. I raised my hand and slapped her face; the sharp crack echoed across the balcony. She turned her head to one side, long hair covering half her face, trembling all over but dared not speak again. I stroked her flushed cheek: "Quinn Scott, I told you—I hate hearing the word 'death' come from your mouth." "Your life hasn't belonged to you for a long time. If I didn't allow you to die, how could you dare to die?" Her tears fell, striking the back of my hand, icy to the bone. She stared at the cashmere blanket on her knee—the one I had the servants fetch last winter when her leg ached. I reached out and tore off the blanket, exposing her right leg, deformed below the knee, its skin darkened. She was once the proudest ballet dancer, standing on stage like a swan. Now, I have broken the wings of that swan with my own hands. Quinn Scott screamed with heart-wrenching pain, clutching her legs with both hands. I remembered when she was first hospitalized, crying until she nearly turned away at the sight of her leg. "Simon Lewis..." she called out to me in despair, suddenly falling from the wheelchair and hitting the floor hard. Her knee struck the tile, but she seemed oblivious to the pain, crawling inch by inch toward me. Just as her fingers nearly grazed the cuff of my pants, I stepped back. Her fingertips missed, and her shoulders collapsed. Seeing her like that, I felt an unexpected flicker of triumph in my heart. I crouched down and gripped her chin, forcing her to raise her head. Her tears spilled into my palm, sharp and fine like tiny needles. But my face remained cold: "If you have someone to blame, blame yourself—why did you love me?" That winter, I even drove Stella away. "If it weren't for you, how could Stella have frozen to death in the mountains, her body never found, leaving behind only a bloodstained scarf?" At the mention of "Stella," Quinn Scott's struggling abruptly stopped. Her eyes were empty; her lips trembled, but no words came out. I pressed my fingertips harder, making her chin pale, then lowered my head to bite her lips. Blood welled at the corner of her mouth; I tasted the sourness: "I'm living with you now, just as you wished. So why are you unhappy?" Have I been unkind to you? Was the love you clung to back then not happiness? Her eyes were like dead fish, utterly devoid of any light.