Chapter 1
I stared at the glaring zeros on my computer screen—the views， likes， and comments all zero. My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long time， as if each sentence was dried-up chewing gum， hard and tasteless. Eventually， I deleted them one by one， leaving only a blank screen that mirrored the emptiness in my life.
Three years ago， I was known as a rising thriller novelist， with"Nocturnal Pursuit“ topping Amazon charts. Publishers’ editors chased me for sequels， and social media readers flooded me with requests to write more. Martha looked at me back then with that bright adoration. She would sneak in hot cocoa while I stayed up all night writing， gently massaging my stiff shoulders and neck， saying，"Edmond， you are a genius. Your words can capture everyone’s breath.“
But even geniuses run out of steam.
I wrote the sequel for three years， revised it eight times， but ultimately， it was rejected by the publisher. The editor’s email was tactful yet stinging:“Edmond， the market needs sharper stories. Your writing lacks that edge from before and feels like lukewarm water.” IP adaptation projects also failed， with investors bluntly saying，“Today’s readers are not interested in your old-fashioned thrillers. They want either extreme violence or absurd twists; you’re too conservative.“
Conservative? That was the pride I once took in my meticulous storytelling and nuanced psychological portrayals. Now， they were seen as just that—conservative.
After the income dried up， this household had its own distinct scent. Martha no longer offered shoulder and neck massages; instead， after her yoga sessions， she resorted to heavy-handed pushes and strikes. She enrolled in a hot yoga class， claiming it was for stress relief from being a community nurse， but as she practiced， those highly flexible poses transformed into weapons aimed at me.
One of the most frequent“lessons“ she gave was what she called the“cross choke，” which she would perform when I was lost in thought， seated before my computer. She’d leap onto my back， her legs entwining around mine， and with her arms looping behind me， her hands clamped around my throat as she pulled back. Her yoga-toned muscles tightened， almost blacking out my vision each time， a strangled sound escaping from my throat before I could recover.
Another instance occurred when I complained about the overly salty breakfast she prepared. Without a second thought， she snatched up the frying pan and hurled it at me. It whizzed past my ear， smashed against the wall in two pieces， splattering egg yolk and ceramic shards across my body. I stood frozen on the spot as she glared down with disdain:“If you can’t handle things， write something that earns money， Edmund Cole. You’re totally useless!“
The words“useless” stung deeply.
I wasn’t incapable of overpowering her. At six feet three inches and two hundred pounds， I could easily have knocked this five-foot-six woman off her feet if the situation called for it. But I didn’t. My upbringing had instilled in me that a man shouldn’t hit a woman， even if she started it. More importantly， I feared losing her.
Martha was naturally social; everyone in the community adored her. She handled all the household bills， taxes， and home repairs， as well as managing my previous book readings. I was an absolute social phobe， excelling only at writing. Even mundane tasks like grocery shopping left me tongue-tied with anxiety， much less dealing with complex real-world affairs. She was like my limbs， my voice， my connection to the outside world. Without her， I might not have dared leave the house， let alone restart my writing.
She once told me that I was a flower she had nurtured in a greenhouse of creativity， just to bloom freely. Now， this flower was withered， and she revealed another side of her as a gardener—rather than pruning， she had plunged scissors into its roots.
I sought help from others， but all I received were snickers and misunderstandings.
I snapped a photo of the bruises she had left on my back and posted it to Facebook friends:“Day N of being battered by my wife. What should I do?“
My cousin Mark replied，“Brother， are you showing off? Martha’s such a gentle woman; how much does it hurt her to hit you?”
My cousin Lena added a big smile emoji:“Edmund， even at six feet three inches， your one-meter-six wife knocks you down? That’s so cute! Being afraid of your wife is a blessing!“
Even my sister messaged me privately:“Edmund， are you under too much writing pressure recently? Martha has done so much for this household; give her some space.“
Undeterred， I contacted the domestic violence shelter in Los Angeles.
The social worker was a young girl. After hearing my story， she paused and said，“Sir， we primarily serve female victims here. If Martha’s actions really bother you， maybe marriage counseling could be an option?“
I exploded. I lifted up my shirt to reveal the bruises on my skin:“That’s discomfort? This is domestic violence! Do you think just because I’m a man， it won’t matter?“
The girl was taken aback and quickly explained，“Sir， we see far fewer male victims in intimate relationships， but… Martha has volunteered here before. She told us about your creative block and emotional instability. She’s always been understanding of you.”
I was stunned. It seemed she had already set me up as an emotionally unstable person. No matter what I said， everyone would think I was being unreasonable.
I posted my ordeal on TikTok to see if strangers might be more objective. In the video， I pointed at my bruises and recounted Martha’s violent acts. The comments were even worse than expected:
“Haha， this guy is such a good actor! Maybe you should get an Oscar!“
“Come on， he must have done something wrong; why not let his wife discipline him?“
“A coward who can’t even stand up to a woman? Go report her if you’re so weak.“
“How about a series called‘My Abusive Wife’? It would be a hit!“
A hit? I just wanted to die.
Those comments felt like knives slicing through my skin. I finally understood: for men， being battered by women is either seen as exaggerated affection or weakness， or as self-inflicted pain. Nobody truly sympathized with me; they only saw my suffering as humor.
The atmosphere at home grew increasingly oppressive. Martha’s attitude toward me was erratic. On good days， she would cook a meal and sit beside me， watching intently:“Edmond， when will you produce something worthwhile? We haven’t paid off our mortgage yet， and Lily’s tuition is almost due. You can’t keep wallowing in despair.“
On bad days， she found any excuse to lash out. Spilling a glass of water would land me on the floor with a harsh scolding:“A waste， you can’t even manage a simple task like pouring water.“ Forgetting to turn off the light while working late， she barged into my study and slammed my laptop shut， shouting，“Get out!“
What chilled me most was Lily.
Lily is my daughter， now in her third year at UCLA. Previously， she adored me， always pestering me with stories from my novels， dreaming of becoming a writer like her father. But since I hit a creative block， her attitude toward me grew distant.
One evening， Martha was again displeased by the unimpressive progress on my manuscript and resorted to violence. Using the knee strike she learned in yoga class， she kneed me in the stomach with such force that I curled up on the floor for hours. Struggling， I managed to send a text:“Baby， Mommy hit me again， this time with a knee strike. This hurts so much.“
I hoped she would react as she used to—replying，“Daddy， are you okay? I’ll come home tomorrow.” But when the phone rang， it was only two words:“Deserve it.”
Deserve it.
These two words cut like a knife. My own daughter thought I deserved this.
I called her back.“Lily， why did you say that? I’m your father，“ I whispered hoarsely.
On the other end of the line， Lily sounded frustrated.“Dad， stop causing me trouble. Mom says you’ve been acting unstable recently and constantly giving her a hard time. She’s already struggling enough; can’t you just be more understanding?“
“Trash，“ the word echoed in my mind， from the mouth of my closest family member.
I shut down， sat on the floor， staring at the empty living room. The photo on the wall showed us three together: me smiling， Martha’s face warm， Lily hugging my arm with a radiant smile. How happy we were back then.
But now? My wife beat me， my daughter shunned me， and I was just a writer who couldn’t even put down words.
I locked myself in the study for days on end， without stepping out. Martha didn’t knock or bring food; she treated me like nothing. I ate stale cookies from the drawer and drank tap water. The computer screen was always lit， but the document still had only those deleted and rewritten lines.
I began to doubt my own talent. Perhaps I never had any real skill， and my success was just luck riding a fleeting market trend. Now that it was over， I was just a pig who fell off the table.
On the fourth morning， I opened the fridge to find it empty. Martha must have gone out to buy groceries but left nothing for me. I walked into the living room where she sat on the sofa， applying her face mask while browsing her phone.
“I’m hungry，” my voice was dry.
She didn’t look up from her phone and said coolly，“There’s no food in the fridge. Order your own takeout.”
“I don’t have money，“ I had spent all my advance payments， and my bank account couldn’t even afford a pizza.
Martha finally looked up， her eyes filled with mockery:“Edmond， you’re nearly forty; do you still need to be fed by your wife? Can’t you earn something worth your name?“
“I can’t!“ I shouted， the accumulated pain and frustration bursting out.“I’ve tried， I try every day， but I just can’t! Do you think this is what I want? Do you think I enjoy being beaten by you， shamed by my daughter， ridiculed by everyone?“
She stood up， walked to me， and slapped me across the face. The sound was clear and sharp， and my cheek burned with pain.
