My Diary Says My Husband Is Poisoning Me

I was suffering from a rare form of retrograde amnesia.

Every morning I woke up, Id forgotten everything that happened the day before.

My husband, Christian, was my only memory anchor.

Every day, he would patiently tell me, You're Price, 29 years old, my wife, and we're very much in love.

Until I found a filled diary deep within the study.

Flipping to the first page, it was my handwriting:

"Don't believe anything Christian says."

"Cowell isn't his cousin, she's his childhood sweetheart."

"You're not sick; he's the one who's been poisoning you."

Today was the 1001st time I'd discovered the truth, and the first day I decided to play along.

I opened my eyes that morning, my mind a complete blank.

"Awake?"

I turned my head and saw a man in a bathrobe sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Who am I?" I asked, instinctively.

The man smiled, reaching out to ruffle my hair.

"You're Price, my wife. You're sick; you forget everything from the day before."

He pointed to a photo frame on the nightstand. "That's our wedding photo."

In the picture, I was in a wedding dress, leaning against him. But strangely, the photo's edge had obvious creases.

"Then who are you?"

"Christian."

He held my hand, his fingertips warm. "Your only memory anchor."

I nodded, accepting the explanation.

Christian helped me out of bed, squeezed toothpaste onto my brush, and even meticulously combed my hair.

"What do you want to do today?"

I looked at myself in the mirror. "I don't know. I don't remember anything."

"Then leave it to me."

Christian wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder.

"We have a family doctor coming for a recheck this morning. This afternoon, I'll take you for a walk in the garden, and tonight..."

Before he could finish, the doorbell rang.

Christian released me, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly.

"That must be Dr. Cowell."

I followed him downstairs. A woman in a white coat stood in the living room.

She turned around, and her eyes clearly brightened when she saw Christian.

"Christian, how is Price today?"

Christian naturally walked over to Cowell, taking the medical bag from her hand.

Their fingers brushed as they exchanged it, and neither pulled away.

Cowell looked at me, a swift, appraising look flashing in her eyes.

"Price, let's measure your memory baseline today."

For the last question of the test, she pointed to Christian.

"Who is he?"

"My husband."

Cowell's pen paused, and the corners of her mouth turned up.

"Basic cognition is still present, but Christian, I still recommend increasing the dosage."

She finished packing her instruments. As she stood up, her fingers casually brushed the back of Christian's hand.

I sat on the sofa and watched Cowell stand on tiptoe at the door, whispering something in his ear.

When he closed the door and returned, his face had resumed its programmed tenderness.

"Price, what do you want for lunch today?"

I stared into his eyes. "What did she tell you outside just now?"

Christian froze for a moment. Then, a scrutinizing look flashed in his eyes.

"Why are you asking that?"

I lowered my head, twisting the hem of my shirt. "She comes every day. She's so good to me."

"Dr. Cowell is just doing her job."

Christian pulled me into his embrace. The faint scent of cedarwood on him was the same as the scent on Cowell.

"Price, you have to remember, in this world, I'm the only one who truly cares about you."

"Don't believe anything anyone else says."

I nodded obediently, leaning against his chest, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.

Christian went to the office in the afternoon, and I was alone, sunbathing in the yard.

Paul, the housekeeper, brought me fruit, looking at me as if he wanted to say something.

"Mrs. Price, do you really not remember anything?"

I shook my head blankly. "Christian says I'm sick."

Paul's lips parted, and he ultimately sighed.

"Then listen to Mr. Christian. He's looking out for you."

As he turned to walk away, I heard him murmur.

"Poor thing, she can't even hold onto what her parents left her..."

I was about to ask more, when the sound of a car engine reached the yard gate.

Cowell arrived with her medical bag, an apologetic look on her face.

"So sorry, Price, I forgot to give you your shot this morning. Just remembered and came right over."

With that, she took out a syringe.

"This is a new nerve-boosting medication. Christian agreed to start you on it today."

I instinctively recoiled. But she grabbed my hand, her grip surprisingly strong.

"Price, be good. It's for your own good."

I struggled a bit, and she immediately frowned. "Don't move around, or it'll hurt."

The needle pierced my skin, and before long, I fell into a heavy sleep.

I had a terrible dream.

In the dream, I stood at the edge of a cliff. Christian and Cowell embraced.

"Price, jump! Jumping will set you free!"

I didn't want to, I wanted to run away.

But Christian blocked me, forcing me step by step to the very edge.

"Price, once you're dead, I'll get all the shares!"

With that, he suddenly shoved me off.

"Ah!" I jolted awake, but no one was around.

Through the greenhouse glass, I saw two people talking.

I shook my groggy head and suddenly spoke.

"Christian, are we really married?"

Their conversation stopped abruptly. Christian turned his head, his eyes in that instant becoming terrifying.

He walked towards me, step by step. "Why are you asking that?"

His gaze made me tremble with fear.

"I just found it strange. Why do we only have one wedding photo?"

"Why is there no trace of my past anywhere in this house?"

He gripped my hand, so hard my bones ached.

"Because you're sick, Price."

"When you have an episode, you destroy things C you tear up photos, smash furniture."

"To protect you, and to protect our memories, I've put everything away. Don't you trust me?"

He looked at me, his eyes flashing with pain. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have doubted you."

Christian's expression softened, and he pulled me into his arms.

"It's okay. I know you're sick. I'll stay with you until you're cured."

I leaned on his shoulder, my gaze drifting over it to Cowell, who still stood nearby.

Perhaps due to the medication, I fell asleep exceptionally early that night.

At 2 AM, I woke up, thirsty.

I got out of bed, fumbled my way to the kitchen, and as I poured water, I noticed the light in the greenhouse was still on.

On a strange impulse, I walked over.

Through the glass, I saw Cowell sitting in a wicker chair, wearing a bathrobe.

Christian stood behind her, leaning over to massage her shoulders.

"Was today's dosage too strong? She actually started to suspect things today."

His voice carried to me. Cowell tilted her head back, resting the back of her head against his stomach.

"Suspicion is normal. That drug damages the memory region. Over time, people become paranoid and even develop persecution delusions."

She reached out and clasped Christian's wrist. "Christian, are you getting soft?"

"No." He smiled, an expression of indifference I'd never seen before.

"This is what she owes me. If she hadn't forced me to marry her back then, I'd already be a corporate high-flyer!"

Cowell laughed.

"Just three more months, and her cognitive function will be permanently damaged."

"Then she'll truly be sick, and no one will ever find out."

Christian laughed heartily.

"Exactly. By then, I'll have her parents' fortune, and we can finally truly be together!"

I stood in the darkness, fragmented images suddenly surging forward.

Christian crushing pills and putting them in my milk.

Cowell holding a syringe, smiling gently and saying, "This is for your own good."

Back then, I had frantically written in my diary, "Don't trust them."

So I really had kept a diary, really discovered the truth!

But every day I woke up, I would forget.

In the greenhouse, Cowell stood up, turned, and wrapped her arms around Christian's waist.

She buried her face in his chest. "These years, pretending to be your cousin has been so exhausting."

Christian gently stroked her back.

"Just a little longer. The paperwork for the Howard family's asset transfer will be done soon."

"You deliberately got close to her back then just for her parents' inheritance, didn't you?"

"What else?" Christian laughed, his voice laced with mockery.

"Who would truly love a fool stupid enough to be tricked every day?"

I clamped my hand over my mouth, desperate to escape, but my foot stepped on a dry twig.

The lights in the greenhouse instantly went out.

I ran back to the bedroom as fast as I could, scrambling under the covers, my heart pounding like it was about to burst.

The door creaked open. Christian stood in the doorway, not turning on the light.

He walked over and reached out, touching my forehead.

"Price, where were you just now?"

I forced myself to sound groggy, like I'd just been woken up.

"What? I've been sleeping."

He didn't speak. His fingers slid from my forehead down to my neck, stopping on a purplish bruise, pressing lightly.

It hurt so much I almost cried out.

"Had a nightmare? You're sweating a lot."

I bit my lip.

Christian leaned down, close to my ear.

"Price, remember, you can go anywhere in this house, except the greenhouse in the backyard."

"It's too damp there; it's bad for your illness."

I nodded, not daring to make a sound.

He smiled, satisfied, and tucked me in.

"Sleep. Everything will be fine tomorrow when you wake up."

He left, the door not quite closed.

I heard him tell Cowell in the hallway, "She might have found out. Move the plan forward!"

Only when the hallway was completely quiet did I dare to open my eyes.

Christian had said that the study held the things I tore up during my episodes.

I remembered where the key was.

I crept barefoot into the study. When I opened the door, a musty smell assailed me.

Shredded photos, smashed ornaments, half-torn books all piled in a corner.

I saw the bottom shelf of the bookshelf. One book's thickness seemed off.

I pulled it out and opened it; the book was hollowed out.

Inside was a leather notebook. I opened the first page, and it was my handwriting.

"March 15th, Christian gave me a new medication today. I pretended to swallow it, then turned and spat it into the toilet."

"When Cowell came to check, I deliberately said my head hurt. The excitement in her eyes couldn't be hidden."

"May 20th, our wedding anniversary. Christian gave me a necklace. That night, I found a transfer record to Cowell on his phone. How ironic."

I turned page after page. The diary recorded the time and place of their every secret meeting.

The last page contained only one large line, written in red marker.

"Price, escape! They will kill you!"

My hands began to tremble violently.

Bang! I heard the front door open downstairs.

I hastily shoved the diary back into its place.

I had just run back to the bedroom and lay down when the door was pushed open. Christian stood in the doorway.

He turned on the light, holding a syringe, medicine dripping from its tip.

He walked over, smiling. "Price, you went to the study, didn't you?"

I shook my head frantically, tears streaming uncontrollably.

"I checked the study door lock. There are new scratches on it."

Christian sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to caress my face.

"Why aren't you obedient?"

I trembled with fear. "Christian, I really didn't. I just went to the bathroom."

"Stop pretending."

He suddenly ripped off the covers, grabbed my ankle, and dragged me to the edge of the bed.

"The mud on the bottom of your feet isn't wiped clean. There are your footprints on the study floor."

My entire body went stiff, unable to speak.

Christian raised the syringe, pushed it, and liquid sprayed from the needle's tip.

"I originally wanted to let you live for another three months, but you're not behaving."

He smiled. "Tonight, it ends."

The moment the needle pierced my skin, I lifted my foot and kicked him in the chest.

Christian hadn't expected me to still have the strength to resist.

He fell backward, and the syringe flew out of his hand.

I rolled off the bed, scrambling towards the door.

Before I could run two steps, he grabbed my hair from behind.

"Do you think you can escape?"

He dragged me back, slamming me onto the bed, his knee pressing down on my legs.

The pain made my vision go black, but I gritted my teeth and forced out the words.

"Christian, if you kill me, the police will find out!"

"Find out?" He scoffed, glancing at me.

"You have retrograde amnesia; everyone knows that."

"You forget everything every day. When you have an episode, you self-harm and attempt suicide."

"Tonight, you had an episode and injected yourself with an overdose of medication. What does that have to do with me?"

He leaned down, close to my face.

"Cowell will testify for me, saying your condition had already reached an uncontrollable level."

"Do you think anyone will suspect me?"

Christian released my hair, getting up to pick up another spare syringe from the floor.

In that split second, I fiercely pulled out the phone I had hidden under my pillow.

The screen was lit, on a call, the number was 911.

I held up the phone, my voice trembling.

"Christian, you've been talking for three minutes. The operator heard everything."

He froze, his face instantly turning ashen.

Outside the door, an urgent knocking suddenly sounded. "Open up, police!"

Christian looked at me, then let out a cold laugh.

"Price, when did you recover your memory?"

I didn't answer. I just clutched the phone, shouting with all my might towards the door.

"Help me!"

The door was crashed open. Two uniformed police officers rushed in, followed by someone holding a body camera.

Christian took a step back, a smile quickly plastered on his face.

"Officers, it's all a misunderstanding. My wife is sick; she was having an episode just now."

The leading officer raised a hand to interrupt him.

"Mr. Christian, we have recorded everything you just said."

"Now, please come with us."

Christian's smile froze on his face. He turned to look at me, a cold smirk on his lips.

The police handcuffed him and escorted him out.

As he passed me, he suddenly stopped.

He turned his head, and in a voice only I could hear, said.

"Price, do you think this is over?"

"Don't forget, Cowell is still out there."

I suddenly looked up. At the end of the hallway, Cowell stood in the darkness, holding a scalpel.

She smiled at me, then disappeared down the staircase.

The police chased after her, but I heard a flurry of urgent footsteps downstairs. Then, everything fell silent.

I collapsed onto the floor, trembling uncontrollably.

My phone suddenly rang again. A text message came from an unknown number, just one line.

"Price, we're not done yet."