In my husband's body, there are two people with completely different personalities, who don't know each other, and whose identity experiences have never intersected.
His eyes were like ice knives as he rolled up the cuffs of his shirt, layer by layer. "No? I'll help you. "
With that, he lifted his foot and kicked me in the stomach.
I rolled down the stairs and fell in a pool of blood. He stood where he was, as if he were the ruler of all.
Cruelty, malice, bloodlust, ruthlessness — this was him.
Rain of bullets rained down, and he pressed me down with his frail body.
Blood, flowing like water, soaked through his clothes and stained my chest.
He kissed my face and smiled innocently. "Wife, don't be afraid. I'm here."
Innocent, kind, gentle, loyal — that was him.
I loved him, but I was afraid of him.
That year, he caressed my daughter's face. "I'll give you thirty seconds to decide whether to sue for divorce or …" He suddenly grabbed her by the neck, and his voice, calm and clear in the child's sobs, said, "Ask her to go to heaven."
I handed over the indictment.
He stood helplessly in the courtroom, crying like an abandoned child. "Wife, why did you suddenly abandon me?"
I always knew that my husband loved me the most in the world.
But he had another side.
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