The Broken Painter
My boyfriend, claiming he had no money, took me to a back-alley clinic. The delayed treatment cost me my right hand.
Because of that, I missed the finals of the national art competition and the once-in-a-lifetime chance to study under a grandmaster. I had no choice but to go back to working three jobs a day just to survive.
Six months later, while delivering food, I stumbled upon the truth about his family's wealth and overheard a conversation he was having with a friend.
"Liam, that girl—Aria—only had a minor fracture. You actually had them amputate her hand."
"Hmph. It should have been crippled long ago. Since she survived, of course, her hand had to pay the price. After all, I promised Emily I'd help her win the national competition, that I'd clear any obstacle in her path. I won't allow anyone to threaten her."
Hearing those words, I finally understood. The enviable love I thought I had was nothing but a cruel joke.
My boyfriend was a wolf in sheep's clothing.
And if that's the case, I don't want him anymore.
1
His friend teased, "It's not like Emily Weasley is short on good teachers. And Aria is your girlfriend. She was counting on that apprenticeship as her only shot. If she ever finds out the truth, you're going to have a real mess on your hands."
"If you don't say anything, no one will ever know. Besides, the only reason I got close to Aria in the first place was for Emily." He then raised an eyebrow. "Oh, and give Aria that new healing ointment your family developed."
His friend hesitated. "But that formula hasn't gone through clinical trials yet. If she uses it and something goes wrong, it could affect her nerves. Her hand might ache or tremble for the rest of her life."
Standing outside the door, my heart clenched. Tears welled in my eyes. The next words out of his mouth were even more heartless, invisible blades plunging deep into my soul.
"You're always complaining you don't have data. Well, here's your clinical trial right here. And if there are problems? Even better. It'll guarantee she can never pick up a brush again, not even with an assistive device. She can't be a threat to Emily anymore."
"Damn, Liam. You're ruthless. Still not letting her go after all this time. Such a waste of talent. What are you going to do if Emily runs into more geniuses in the future? Eliminate them all one by one?"
Liam cut him off, annoyed. "It can't be helped. Aria's just unlucky. She's Emily's personal demon. Since she was lucky enough to survive the accident, as long as she can't paint anymore, Emily's obsession will fade, and she'll achieve even greater things."
After a pause, he added, "I'll compensate Aria, of course. She only lost a hand. I can make sure she never has to worry about money again."
At that, the tears I'd been holding back finally broke free. I struggled to compose myself, placed the delivery bag by the door, and numbly wheeled my scooter away.
I stared at the empty space where my right hand used to be and bit my lip until I tasted blood. For six months, the memory of painting with that hand felt like a distant dream.
I never imagined the falling lamp was a premeditated attack, an "accident" designed by my own boyfriend to eliminate a rival for his childhood sweetheart. My hand could have been saved, but he had it amputated.
To Liam, I was never his girlfriend. I was just an obstacle, Emily's demon, that needed to be exorcised.
I remember waking up in the clinic, Liam holding me in a tight, worried embrace, as if trying to merge our bodies into one.
"You scared me to death," he'd whispered. "I was so afraid something would happen to you. Thank god you were quick and blocked it with your hand. If it had hit your head... I can't even imagine." He held me tighter. "Thank god you're still here. Thank god you're okay."
I thought it was love. Now, knowing the truth, a chilling coldness spread through me. What an actor.
That lamp was meant to kill me. My survival was an unwelcome miracle. Since I didn't die as he'd wished, he had my hand severed, ensuring I could never hold a brush again.
The man was truly heartless.
I wiped my tears and, without another moment's hesitation, booked a flight to the capital.
That night, after my last delivery, I returned to the cramped basement apartment I rented for fifty dollars a month.
"Aria, you're back. You must be exhausted," he said, handing me a glass of water. After I drank it, he produced a vial of medicine. "This is a new wonder drug from the hospital for healing."
Remembering his conversation, I refused. "I don't want it. I'm still going to paint."
Liam smiled gently. "Don't be scared, Aria. This is a special medicine designed to help you hold a brush again."
His smile sent a wave of goosebumps over my skin. Designed to make sure I can never hold a brush again, I thought.
I shook my head. Liam's expression darkened. "Aria, don't be difficult."
My head started to spin, and I collapsed onto the bed. Through a hazy fog, I felt the prick of a needle in my arm. A searing pain shot through my right arm, and I curled into a ball, whimpering.
Liam panicked, grabbing his phone. "What's happening? Why is she in so much pain?"
His friend's voice on the other end was calm. "Liam, I told you there would be side effects."
Liam wasn't listening, just raging into the phone.
Through my blurry vision, I let out a cold, silent laugh. He was still acting, even now. This was all his idea. He was determined to erase any possibility of my hand healing. Taking my hand wasn't enough. When he saw me practicing with an assistive device, he grew worried again, rushing to destroy my nerves, to take away even that last sliver of hope.
2
I woke up in that same back-alley clinic.
The "doctor" saw I was awake. "You're up. I've given you a painkiller. Does your right arm still hurt?"
I shook my head. "Not as much. But I can't seem to lift it."
I tried to demonstrate, straining with all my might, but my right arm remained limp and unresponsive.
Liam seemed to let out a breath of relief. Then, his voice choked with emotion. "I'm so sorry, Aria. This is all my fault."
His eyes were bloodshot, and he truly looked distressed. He leaned down and hugged me, his tears tracing a path down my neck.
I kept my head down, my own eyes clear and cold. This is exactly what you wanted, isn't it, Liam? Destroy me to elevate Emily.
Concerned for my "recovery," Liam insisted on carrying me home.
Lying in bed, I opened my long-neglected social media account. A flood of hateful messages appeared. Someone had even doxxed me in the comments.
【This basement-dwelling rat loves to steal other people's work and pretend it's her own.】
【Looks like she's missing a hand. Serves her right. A plagiarist gets what she deserves.】
I steadied myself and traced the source. A popular art blogger had called me out on behalf of a friend. I clicked on the friend's profile.
My heart sank as I saw the familiar artwork. Those were my paintings.
I stumbled out of bed and started rummaging through my things. The folder where I kept my original sketches was empty.
Just then, Liam walked in from the bathroom.
"My paintings," I demanded. "Did you take them?"
Caught off guard, he stammered, "Aria, I was just worried they would upset you, so I moved them somewhere safe."
I held up my phone, showing him the post. "Then what is this? Why does someone else have my work? Or did you sell it?"
"Aria, there must be some misunderstanding," he insisted. "I didn't sell your paintings."
"If it's a misunderstanding and you didn't sell them, then she must have stolen them and posted them herself?"
"Aria, that's enough!" Liam cut me off, his voice self-righteous. "You have no proof. How can you accuse someone of theft? What are you trying to do?"
I sneered. "My work is in her possession, and she's online accusing me of plagiarism. I'm not allowed to clear my name?"
He frowned, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "It's late. Stop making a scene. So what if they say you stole it? You can't paint anymore. You're not part of that world. A few words online won't hurt you."
His hypocrisy was breathtaking. It was clear he was protecting her.
I lowered my head, my eyes filling with tears, and pretended to sob.
Liam, thinking he'd been too harsh, came over and put his arm around me. "Aria, forget about what's online. We'll focus on making a good life for ourselves."
His cold hand roamed my waist, and then he swept me into his arms, laying me gently on the bed. The moment his lips met mine, I held up my right arm, the stump of my wrist between our faces.
I didn't miss the flicker of disgust in his eyes.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "My arm... it still hurts. It's not a good time."
He forced a smile and buried his face in my neck, taking a deep breath before kissing me one last time. "Alright. I'll let you off the hook for today."
The truth was, in the six months since my injury, he hadn't touched me. Every time he accidentally brushed against my right arm, he would recoil as if burned before pretending everything was normal.
I turned my back to him, violently scrubbing his scent from my skin. The nausea and hatred were overwhelming.
Later that night, while he was asleep, I scrolled through the blogger's friend's feed. The more I saw, the more my blood ran cold.
3
The account had to be Emily's. She made no effort to hide it, posting picture after picture of gifts from her "childhood friend," many of which were identical to the ones Liam had given me.
Except mine were fakes. Hers were the real deal.
I remembered Liam telling me, "Aria, I can only afford knock-offs for now, but I promise one day I'll be able to give you the real thing." I had swallowed his lies, but the truth was, he had always had the money.
The gifts I had saved up for, working multiple jobs to buy him, he never used. They were too cheap.
And all those Valentine's Days he'd missed, claiming he had to work? He was with her.
She had even posted a photo from the national art competition six months ago, holding her first-place trophy. The caption read: "Half the credit for this award goes to my dearest Liam! I'll be sure to reward him well tonight!"
The day she won her trophy was the day I lost my hand. That night, I was alone in that filthy clinic. Liam had told me he was investigating the falling lamp. In reality, he was celebrating Emily's victory. When he came back the next day, he said it was just a freak accident. Of course it was. He was the one who arranged it.
I closed my eyes, focusing on the faint, phantom ache in my right arm.
The next morning, Liam acted as if nothing had happened, leaning in to kiss me. I turned my head away.
He frowned slightly, then sighed. "Aria, are you still mad? Don't be. I know you're not that petty. Be good, okay?"
And then he left.
I knew where he was going. Today was Emily's birthday. For the past three years, Liam had always thrown her a huge party. He would come back the next day with a piece of cake she had supposedly made. I never ate it, telling him I was allergic to nuts. He would just laugh and say, "Aria, you're poor, but you're so picky," before eating the whole thing himself.
Around noon, I received another text from the same anonymous number: 【22 Riverfront Villa. Come and see the difference between you and a real person, you pathetic charity case.】
Before, I would have been too busy working to bother with such childish games. But now, with my right arm useless, I had time. So I went.
As I approached the door, I heard Liam's voice.
"Let's give a warm welcome to our queen, the rising star of the art world, the goddess Emily Weasley!"
I remembered all the empty promises he'd made, how he was going to treat me like a princess once he had money.
I pushed the door open. When Liam saw me, he instinctively pushed Emily away.
She pouted. "Liam, I heard you're keeping some secret girl on the side. Is it true?"
Liam had never "kept" me. I was the one working three jobs to support us both. His support only existed in his fantasies.
A flash of annoyance crossed his face. "Don't listen to them. It's not true."
"No secret girl, or no girlfriend?" Emily pressed.
Liam hesitated, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Neither. I told you, I just want to watch over you as you grow up."
Emily beamed, then pretended to just notice me. "Oh! This... incomplete delivery person... doesn't seem to belong here. You weren't invited, were you?"
Everyone in the room knew what was going on, but they all played dumb, just as Liam had played me for a fool for so long.
I gave a cold laugh, my eyes locked on Liam. "I worked hard at my art, hoping my talent would lead to a better life. I worked three jobs a day so we could have a home of our own one day. I trusted my boyfriend because I loved him."
Liam's hands clenched into fists, his knuckles turning white.
4
My voice trembled as I continued, "But some people don't deserve it. Liars don't deserve anyone's honesty."
A snicker came from the side. "The things you're talking about, sweetie, Liam already has in spades. He has plenty of houses. Art is just a little game he plays to keep his goddess happy. And as for love? We can get that whenever we want."
A wave of laughter filled the room.
"That's enough! Shut up!" Liam's face was dark. "This is Emily's birthday party. Don't let some irrelevant person ruin it."
The moment he finished speaking, I turned and walked out. A burst of cheerful music started up behind me.
My presence, like my entire existence to them, was nothing more than an ant to be crushed, not worthy of a second glance.
But was that really true? If I was so insignificant, why did beating Emily just once turn me into her "personal demon"?
I looked at my perfectly intact left hand. A demon isn't so easily exorcised.
Liam didn't know I was ambidextrous. In the three years we were together, he could barely remember my birthday without a reminder. How could he know anything else about me? For the past six months, I had been secretly practicing, training my left hand to paint. He was always so "disappointed" that I couldn't paint anymore. I used to think he was sincere, so I kept my left-handed ability a secret, planning to surprise him one day.
Thank god I did. Otherwise, he probably would have taken my left hand too. He was certainly capable of it.
Five days ago, I had sent a letter, along with one of my mother's keepsakes and some of my new work, to her former art mentor. I received a reply almost immediately. I had wanted to tell Liam, but just a single drawing left out on the table had made him so paranoid that he'd moved to destroy me completely, to ensure my right arm could never be used again.
I packed what little I owned, threw all of Liam's things in the trash—they were all probably trash to him anyway—contacted the landlord, cancelled my phone plan, and left the city.
Six months later, the National Art Competition was held in the capital.
Last year's provincial champions from all over the country were competing. Rumor had it that several reclusive grandmasters were planning to take on apprentices from this year's finalists. Emily was determined to win.
Liam was there with her, of course. He never missed one of her competitions.
So when he saw me, the girl he had been searching for, in the convention hall, he froze. He thought he was seeing things. But Emily saw me too and marched right over.
Her voice was sharp. "What are you doing here?" She glanced at my right arm with contempt. "You can't even paint anymore. Are you working as a janitor?"
Liam stood beside her, his lips pressed into a thin line, saying nothing.
I was there on behalf of my new mentor, so I had arrived early to prepare and had thankfully avoided them until now. I pretended not to hear and turned to leave.
Liam suddenly grabbed my arm. "Aria, where have you been for the past six months?"
I shook him off. "Sir, do I know you?"
He frowned, his voice tight with suppressed emotion. "Aria, it's been six months. Haven't you thrown enough of a tantrum? Stop this." His voice softened. "Now that you know who I am, I'll give you whatever you want. Just leave Emily alone."
I sighed and rolled my eyes. "Let's be clear. I wasn't throwing a tantrum. I just don't want you anymore."
I turned and walked away, ignoring the icy fury that instantly clouded his face.
The competition was being live-streamed, and thousands of followers of popular art bloggers were tuning in. When Emily and Liam saw me sitting in the judge's panel, their jaws dropped.
"She's an amateur! A cripple!" Emily shrieked, her voice echoing through the hall. "How can she be a judge? She's a thief who steals other people's work!"
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