Video Message From Five Years Later

Eight months pregnant, my doctor warned my stress-related condition was worsening fastI might have just five years left. Determined to leave something for my unborn daughter, I began recording video messages set five years in the future.

Midway through filming, a glitch froze the screen, then revealed my older self.

Was the baby safe? Boy or girl? Does she look like meor her father? I asked, imagining her in a little princess dress. Have you found someone who loves her? Call her my sweetheart. Watch her try on her wedding dress for me.

Future-me turned away at the mention of the dress. She was born, she said flatly. A girl. We named her Hope. But she never saw your videos.

NaomiGrahams wifedeleted them all. Every trace of you is gone. Hope is five now. She doesnt know what you looked like. She believes her father remarried, and her new aunt tells her she killed you.

She hides in closets, stays silent, writes in a secret journal. Graham says they only keep her as a biological donor for Naomis son whos seven.

The final frame of the video flickered, replaced by an image of a medical chart.

The patients name was mine. The cause of death was listed as chronic drug toxicity leading to anaphylactic shock.

In the space for the attending physician, Naomis signature was clearly written.

The screen went black, and the connection severed.

A wave of icy terror washed over me.

Naomi was my closest friend, my college roommate, and a brilliant psychology graduate. She had always claimed she chose that field because of me. She had been there when I witnessed my mother kill my unfaithful father, an event that left me plagued by nightmares and severe depression for over a decade.

At the time, Naomi had wept, promising she would master psychology to cure me. She had kept her word, becoming my therapist and prescribing medications that finally allowed me to sleep through the night. Beside Graham, she was the person I trusted most in this world.

How could I accept that the two most important people in my life were quietly plotting my death?

The sound of the door opening broke my trance.

Graham walked into the room, a warm, gentle smile on his face.

"Sweetheart, Naomi formulated a new compound for your therapy. Why don't you try it?"

He unscrewed the plastic bottle, poured out a single pill, and held it to my lips.

I looked up into his eyes. They were filled with a familiar, tender concern.

I slowly parted my lips, took the pill, but slipped it beneath my tongue before swallowing a mouthful of water.

"I will get you a blanket," Graham said, turning toward the master bedroom. "The weather is turning cold."

The moment he walked away, I spat the pill into my palm.

I pulled out my phone, opened a photo translation app, and scanned the tiny chemical symbols printed on the prescription label. My heart battered against my ribs, so hard I could barely breathe.

The screen illuminated with a list of active ingredients.

Diphenhydramine.

Loratadine.

Acetaminophen.

Three of my most severe allergens, all packed into a single daily tablet.

None of them were lethal on their own, but taken together over a prolonged period, they would systematically destroy my immune system until my body simply gave up.

My hands began to shake.

For five years, my health had steadily deteriorated despite the medication. I had assumed I was simply cursed, that my psychological trauma was too deep to heal.

In reality, every single pill had been a slow, invisible blade.

"What are you looking at, sweetheart?"

Graham returned, carrying a soft fleece throw.

I quickly locked my phone screen, squeezing my hand shut around the pill.

"Nothing."

"You should spend less time on your phone. It is bad for your eyes." He draped the blanket over my lap, his movements natural and caring. "Get some rest. Hope and I are waiting for you to get better. I have some urgent business at the office, so I must head out."

Though my daughter was not yet born, I had already chosen her name. I wanted the world to remember that I had been here, that I had loved.

Yet in five years, she would have no memory of me at all. Her very existence would be reduced to a medical resource.

As soon as Grahams footsteps faded down the hall, I blinked back my tears and dialed a number I had not called in years.

Before my mother passed away, she had told me: "Nora, if the world ever becomes too heavy to bear, find Uncle Thomas. He will protect you for me."

I opened a messaging app, my tears splashing onto the glass screen as I typed:

"Thomas, please draft a divorce agreement for me. As quickly as possible."

Over the next few days, sleep became impossible, but I still made sure to attend my scheduled prenatal checkup.

In the ultrasound room, the technician stared at the monitor for a long time, a look of pleasant surprise on her face.

"Nora, your physical markers are significantly better than last month. Every indicator is recovering. If this trend continues, you might actually make a full recovery."

A cold sweat broke out across my back. Over the past few days, I had completely stopped taking Naomis pills.

The video from the future was real. My final sliver of hope was shattered.

"Thank you, doctor," I forced a polite smile, clutching my purse tightly as I left the room.

The hospital corridors were bustling with patients.

As I rounded a corner, a small body collided with my knees.

Instinctively, I reached out to steady him. He was a soft, frail little boy around two years old, his skin exceptionally pale and his lips tinted a faint, unhealthy blue. He held a small toy car, which had clattered to the floor, and his mouth puckered as if he were about to cry.

"I am so sorry, sweetheart..."

I knelt to retrieve the toy, but as I looked up, my entire body went rigid.

Naomi stood before me, a stack of medical folders clutched to her chest.

"Nora? What are you doing here?"

Before I could answer, another figure stepped out from behind her.

Graham.

He carried a bottle of mineral water in one hand and a small cartoon backpack in the other.

"Sweetheart, what a surprise," Graham said, his voice entirely calm. "I came to help Naomi with her sons appointment. The boy is quite ill, and she was struggling to manage everything on her own."

I stood there, looking at the three of them. They looked exactly like a family portrait.

Naomi quickly adjusted her expression, offering a tired, apologetic smile.

"Nora, please do not think badly of us. I was simply at my wit's end, so I asked Graham for help. You know the father has his own family and refuses to support us. It is so hard raising a sick child alone, and Graham was just being kind."

I had to clench my jaw to keep from laughing out loud.

She had repeated this story countless times. She had told me she fell in love with a married man who abandoned her, leaving her to raise a child with a chronic blood disorder alone. Out of sympathy, I had sent her large sums of money over the years, treating her child like my own.

Instead, they had been feeding on my flesh and blood.

I looked down at the little boy. His eyes and jawline were a near perfect mirror of Graham's. No wonder Naomi had always kept him hidden from me.

I forced my voice to remain steady.

"He is a beautiful boy. When is his birthday?"

"March seventeenth," Graham answered casually.

March seventeenth. My birthday.

Fragments of memory began to piece themselves together. Two years ago, on my birthday, Graham had called to say he was stuck working late, then phoned later to say he had been in a minor car accident and was at the hospital getting his wrist bandaged.

I had spent my birthday alone, watching the candles on my cake burn down to ash. When he finally returned, his wrist had indeed been wrapped in gauze.

I had never doubted him.

But now I knew. That night, Graham had been at the hospital to welcome his son into the world.

At that moment, the door to the examination room opened. A doctor poked his head out, gesturing toward Graham.

"Toby's father? You may come in now. It is your turn."

The hallway fell into a heavy, suffocating silence.

I did not scream. I did not cry. I simply offered a faint smile.

"You should go inside. Do not keep the doctor waiting."

With that, I turned and walked away.

Shortly after I arrived back at the empty house, my phone rang. It was Naomi, her voice trembling with tears.

"Nora, I am so incredibly sorry about today. It was entirely my fault. I panicked and could not find anyone else to help. The hospital regulations require both parents to sign for the treatment, so I asked Graham to pose as the father."

It was a pathetic lie, but I chose not to shatter it just yet.

"I am not angry," I said quietly.

There was a brief silence on the line.

"Really? That is wonderful. I thought you... well, never mind. I sent a small peace offering via same day courier. It should arrive shortly. Once you receive it, you must promise to forgive me."

I gave a brief murmur of assent and hung up.

Within twenty minutes, the doorbell rang. The courier handed me a paper bag.

As I closed the door, a faint scent drifted from the package. It was a white musk perfume, the only brand Naomi claimed did not trigger her allergies.

I tore open the bag, and a piece of black lace lingerie slid onto the floor.

It was thin, delicate, and visibly worn. Near the collar, there was a faded, discolored smudge, as if it had been rubbed repeatedly against skin.

The garment had been used.

A wave of intense nausea hit me.

I rushed to the bathroom, gripping the toilet bowl as I dry heaved. The tears finally spilled over, my chest tightening with an agonizing ache.

After washing my face, I threw the garment directly into the trash.

The front door opened again.

Graham walked in, holding a small cake box from my favorite bakery. Seeing my pale face, he immediately came over and supported my shoulders.

"What is wrong, sweetheart? You look terrible. Is the morning sickness acting up again?"

I looked into his eyes. He had played the part of the doting husband for five years, and every expression was polished to perfection.

"I am fine. Just a bit nauseous."

"Let me get you some warm water."

As he leaned over the coffee table to reach for the kettle, his collar slipped slightly, exposing his collarbone.

Two inches below his neck, there was a faint pink smudge.

It was Naomis favorite lipstick shade. I had spent hours helping her pick out that exact color at the department store years ago.

Noticing my gaze, Graham casually adjusted his shirt.

"Let me cut some cake for you. You have not had much of an appetite lately, and something sweet might help."

I took the small fork he handed me, staring down at the frosting.

"Graham."

"Yes?"

"I want a divorce."

His hand froze in midair.

"Is this about what happened at the hospital today? I can explain, Nora. Please, do not be unreasonable."

He set the fork down, a flicker of irritation crossing his brow.

I looked directly into his eyes.

"Explain what? Explain that you and Naomi have a son together? Or explain that the two of you have been slowly poisoning me for five years? Pick one, Graham. I am listening."

In an instant, the warmth drained from his face.

"Nora, this is a side effect of your medication. You are experiencing paranoid delusions."

I did not bother arguing. I stood up, walked into the bedroom, and grabbed a coat from the closet.

"Where do you think you are going?" Graham followed me, blocking the doorway.

"To the hospital," I said, my voice completely flat as I slipped on my shoes. "To terminate the pregnancy."

Given my physical condition, bringing a child into this world would only doom her to a life of suffering. I had lived a painful life, and I refused to let my sweet Hope be born merely to be used.

Hearing this, Graham panicked. "Have you lost your mind?!"

I pushed past him, heading for the front door.

I heard his hurried footsteps behind me, but before I could turn, a wet towel was clamped tightly over my nose and mouth.

The chemical scent was overpowering, stinging my eyes. I struggled against his grip, but my strength quickly faded, and the world dissolved into darkness.

When I opened my eyes, I was lying on a cold surgical table.

My wrists and ankles were secured with thick leather straps.

This was not a public hospital. It was Grahams private wellness clinic.

"You are awake?"

Grahams face appeared above me. He was dressed in sterile blue scrubs, his mask and cap obscuring most of his features.

"The stress triggered early labor. I suggest you cooperate with the procedure, for your own sake and the child's."

My mouth was gagged, leaving me unable to scream.

I felt the first sharp wave of a contraction rippling through my abdomen, breaking me out in a cold sweat. Graham had clearly administered a labor-inducing drug.

I thrashed against the restraints, the pain in my stomach tearing through me like a physical blade. I could not scream; I could only let my tears and sweat mingle as they ran down my face.

After what felt like an eternity of agonizing pain, my body felt as though it were being torn apart, and I nearly lost consciousness.

Then, the high-pitched cry of a newborn pierced the silence of the room.

I forced my head to turn, catching a glimpse of my tiny, fragile Hope. She was so small, her cries weak like a frightened kitten.

Before I could even try to see her face, Graham stepped over to the counter and dialed a number.

"The baby is delivered. Prepare the laboratory for the blood matching."

A surge of maternal fury gave me a sudden burst of strength. Hope had only just entered the world, and he was already planning to drain her blood.

I thrashed against the leather straps with everything I had left, and one of the worn buckles suddenly gave way.

I managed to pull my wrist free and rolled off the table, crashing heavily onto the cold floor. The fresh surgical incision tore open, leaving a bright trail of red across the linoleum.

Without a single glance back at me, Graham cradled the crying baby and walked out of the room.

In that moment, only one thought consumed my mind.

I had to survive. I had to make them pay.

Dragging my body across the floor, I stumbled out of the clinic. The security guard at the entrance froze in shock but did not dare to stop me. A woman drenched in blood escaping from a private facility was a terrifying sight.

I ran with every ounce of strength I had left, collapsing into the nearest police station.

As I pushed through the doors of the precinct, I cried out with all the breath in my lungs:

"I want to report an attempted murder! My husband, Graham, has held me captive, forced me into a cesarean section, and has been poisoning me for years!"

"He has an illegitimate child, and he is trying to drain my newborn daughter's blood for a bone marrow transplant!"