More Stupid Than Evil

I suddenly jumped up from the sofa, clutching my chest tightly as if my heart was about to burst through my ribs. The clock on the wall was stuck at 7:30, with a sun sticker Thomas had drawn last week stuck beside it. On the living room table lay an open bag of strawberry-flavored cookies that Thomas hadn't finished. I slammed my knee against the sofa leg, gritting my teeth in pain, but I didn't have time to rub it. Stumbling, I rushed into the bedroom. Thomas lay on his side, his little blanket kicked down to his feet, his face flushed red like a ripe apple. I reached out and touched his forehead. The burning heat under my fingertips made my hand tremble. He groaned softly, instinctively clutching my sleeve with his tiny hand. In an instant, scenes from my past life flooded my mind. At that exact moment, I was rushing to the hospital holding my son, Thomas. The taxi got stuck halfway, and in my arms, he slowly lost all warmth. Finally, the doctor said, "You're too late." In my past life, I was frantic, calling my wife, Holly Sheen again and again. She answered but shouted at me, "Don't kill the mood." Later, I dragged her back from the beach. Her close friend, Tristan Morton chased after us in his car and plunged down a slope trying to avoid a truck. Later, Holly brought me a bowl of pork rib soup. I barely had a few sips before my stomach twisted in agonizing pain. She crouched beside me, her eyes cold as ice, saying, "How dare you kill Tristan? It's time to pay with your life!" I squeezed my eyes shut, pushing those images down, then pulled out my phone and dialed Holly's number. The phone rang seven times before it connected. On the other end came loud music, someone singing the birthday song, with Holly's laughter mixed in. "Chuck? Why are you calling at this time? Tristan and I are cutting the cake." Her voice was full of laughter. "Thomas has a fever—it's really bad. You need to come back immediately." I clenched the phone tightly. The laughter on the other end suddenly stopped. Holly's voice turned cold right away: "Chuck, can you stop doing this all the time? Last time Thomas just had a cold, and you said it was 'really bad.' Now you're trying to trick me into coming back again?" "I'm not lying to you. His breathing is off. You'll see it yourself when you come back." I stood up in a panic, walked to the bedside, and looked at Thomas; his little face was even redder. "I don't believe it. You just can't stand to see me with Tristan." Holly's voice was dripping with impatience, "The candles have just been lit on the cake. Do I really have to spoil everything by leaving? Can't you take him to the hospital yourself?" I was about to respond when Tristan's voice broke through the line, "Holly, stop arguing with him. Our chocolate cake will melt if we wait any longer. The birthday is what matters most." Holly uttered "okay" and said straight out, "I'm not coming back. Figure it out yourself." The call got cut off, the busy signal going "beep beep." I held up my phone, my hand frozen in midair. Thomas shifted in my arms, nuzzled his head against my neck, and softly murmured "Dad." My heart felt like it was pricked by needles—aching and breaking all at once. The tragedy from my past life must never happen again!