"Plip," "Plip,"
The steady rhythm of an EKG machine echoed through the hospital room. A young man lay weak in the bed, his head wrapped in bandages, as his fingers began to twitch.
"Ugh,"
The young man regained consciousness. Slowly, he forced his eyes open, but they immediately went wide. He bolted upright in bed, only to be struck by an agonizing pain in his skull. His hands flew up to clutch his head, eyes squeezing shut against the throes of the headache. Once the pain subsided slightly, he opened his eyes again and scanned the room.
"Huh... I'm in a hospital? If I remember correctly... ah... my head... it hurts,"
He raised both hands to cradle his aching head, but suddenly, he recoiled in shock. Slowly, he turned his gaze toward his right hand.
"Huh... what is this,"
The young man's right hand was a prosthetic, but it looked incredibly advanced, like a bionic limb from the future. It mimicked the shape of a human arm perfectly, appearing to be crafted from a blend of liquid metal and nanomachines. The joints moved as fluidly as a natural limb, though its one flaw was a total lack of sensation; even as it gripped objects like a normal hand, he felt nothing. Consequently, when he touched his blanket, he accidentally squeezed the fabric with crushing force.
He pushed up his sleeve and stared at the interface where the bionic limb merged seamlessly with his upper arm.
"This is... strange... I have a hand?"
The young man began to piece together the fragments of memory—what had happened to him and the final moments before he woke up in this hospital room.
***
"What is wrong with you!" a beautiful woman barked.
"I—I'm sorry," a young office worker replied.
"Ugh, if it's like this, how am I supposed to go shopping or hang out with my friends? Go out and find a job, getting fired is no excuse!" the woman snapped.
"Yes, honey, I'm sorry."
The young man stepped out of his shabby rented house, his gait heavy as he wandered down the street. His head was spinning; he had just been let go from the company that employed him. He walked until he reached a park and slumped onto a bench. A group of children approached, mocking him.
"Stumpy... stumpy," one child jeered, pointing at him.
"Stumpy... ew, look at the stumpy man," another joined in, pointing along.
"Hey, don't be like that, come on kids, let's go (turning to the man) I'm so sorry, excuse us," a mother said, quickly ushering the children away from the poor man.
The man didn't answer. He only offered a bitter smile, though his heart was stinging. He couldn't say anything because it was the truth: he didn't have a right arm. He looked down at the empty, limp sleeve of his long-sleeved shirt. He hadn't been born this way. After staring at his arm, he looked up at the sky.
"What am I supposed to do now? I have nothing left, and Sarah needs money for shopping," he thought to himself.
With great effort, he fished his smartphone out of his pocket and rested it on his thigh. He began browsing job sites using one hand. Out of sheer desperation, he clicked on everything without even reading the descriptions or job duties first.
While he was preoccupied with his phone, a call suddenly flashed on the screen. It was from his mother-in-law. His face went pale. With a trembling hand, he answered.
"Hey Vincent, you've really gone too far this time. Sarah just finished calling me, crying her eyes out because you got fired again. She even had to borrow money from me just to keep you two afloat. You are truly shameless. I feel sorry for that girl having to be with you for the rest of her life. Divorce Sarah this instant!" his mother-in-law screamed over the phone.
"I'm looking for a new job, Mom. All this time, I've had enough savings to support Sarah and myself, and to pay the rent," Vincent said.
"You really have no shame, do you? Do you know what kind of family we are? We are an elite family with a respected reputation. Ever since she married you, Sarah has been miserable. Besides, that rental you're in belongs to our family, doesn't it? Don't act so high and mighty. It's a good thing you two don't have kids yet. I regret having a son-in-law like you, do you hear me!" the mother-in-law ranted without restraint.
"Mom, that's enough, let me talk," a man's voice, dripping with arrogance, spoke in the background.
Vincent recognized that smug voice immediately; it belonged to his brother-in-law.
"Hello, Vincent. Look, let me be clear. Sarah just called me crying, saying you got fired again. Is that true?" he asked.
"It's... it's true," Vincent answered, fumbling his words.
"Don't call me brother, I'm not your brother. So, what's your plan? Just giving up?" the man asked condescendingly.
"No, I'm out looking for work right now," Vincent replied.
"Are you stupid or what? Finding a job is easy. Look on the internet, make a LinkedIn profile, just click and you're done. Oh, right, I forgot, you're stumpy, aren't you? Better find a job for stumpy people with a big salary then. Look, Mom, Dad, and I have agreed: if you haven't found a job by next week, we want you to divorce Sarah. If you refuse, you know the consequences. We won't hesitate to play dirty, understand!" the man barked.
Vincent remained silent. His face had turned a deep shade of red as he struggled to find words, his anger reaching a boiling point.
"Fine, I understand," Vincent forced out, his voice shaking.
"Good, I'll assume you've got it. Now get moving, find a job... beep... beep."
The call ended. Vincent tucked his phone back into his pocket, his hands still shaking. He bowed his head, trying to swallow his emotions. A few tears escaped from the corners of his eyes as he fought back the rage, his blood boiling beneath the surface. Once he regained his composure, Vincent stood up and walked home, hoping the applications he'd submitted would yield something.
When he arrived at the house, Vincent saw Sarah sitting in the living room watching television. She didn't even look his way, let alone greet him. Accustomed to his wife's coldness, Vincent walked into the bedroom. He sat at his desk, staring at his smartphone, praying for a job call.
"Ding dong." The doorbell rang. He heard Sarah's footsteps as she ran to the door and opened it, then heard her footsteps returning inside. Slowly, Vincent stood up and walked to his bedroom door. He cracked it open slightly and saw Sarah back on the sofa, enjoying food that seemed to have just been delivered.
"Growl," his stomach rumbled with hunger, but he didn't dare leave the room, let alone ask for a bite. He could only watch Sarah eat while he clutched his stomach. He sat back down at his desk and returned to watching his phone. "Ding dong." The bell rang again. Once more, Sarah's footsteps hurried to the door.
Suddenly, the bedroom door swung open. Sarah walked in, carrying the leftovers of the meal she had just been eating, and set them on the desk. Without a word, she walked back out, leaving the door open. Vincent stood up to close it and caught a glimpse of Sarah unwrapping a completely different meal, devouring it while watching TV.
"How much food did she buy? Oh right, she just borrowed money from her mother," Vincent muttered to himself.
He quietly closed the door and returned to the desk. Since his stomach growled again and there was food right there, he didn't think twice before eating with a heavy heart. He kept wondering why Sarah's attitude toward him had changed so drastically from how she used to be.
After finishing his meal, Vincent left the room to take a shower. However, when he stepped out, Sarah was no longer in the living room. On the table lay a scrap of paper that read, "I went out with my friends."
"Out with friends? At this hour?" Vincent wondered silently. He sat down and stared at the note, reflecting on how he and Sarah had ended up at this point.
Yes, Sarah had truly changed. Back when we were in middle school, Sarah was always popular. She was beautiful, attractive, and wealthy, coming from an old-money, prestigious family. She had plenty of suitors and a constant circle of friends. But I was different. I didn't come from money. My father and mother died in a car accident; I was an orphan living with an aunt and uncle who controlled my parents' entire estate. Back then, I still had both my arms. The reason I ended up stumpy had quite a bit to do with Sarah.
It happened in eighth grade, when we were fourteen. Our school held a five-day camping trip in the mountains. We all went, and there was a river there, full of rocks and a fast-moving current. The teachers warned us not to play near the riverbank. But being the bratty kids we were, a warning was more like a suggestion. Almost the entire class snuck off to the river during a break without the teachers knowing. Once we were at the water's edge, the neighborhood idiots immediately started trying to impress the girls by showing off their bravery, standing on the bank and crossing a bridge made of rotting, half-broken wooden planks.
Of course, Sarah and the other girls were laughing and admiring the rowdy boys. I was there because I'd been appointed as the group leader responsible for watching everyone—meaning if anyone messed up, it was my neck on the line. So, I had no choice but to stand there and watch the boys show off their "manliness." Then, one boy started inviting the girls to cross. And that was where the tragedy began.