I Became Obedient, and He Despaired

After my eighth trip to the psychiatric facility, I had finally become the perfect, obedient wife my husband always wanted.

The moment I stepped through our front door, I caught my husband's best friend giving him a hand job.

Eric's face darkened. "Ever heard of knocking? If your hands are useless, might as well chop them off."

I nodded obediently and reached for the kitchen knife, bringing it down toward my wrist.

Eric kicked the blade away with such force that I crashed to the floor.

He glared down at me, teeth clenched. "Helen, what the hell are you playing at? If you really want to die, why not just bash your head in and get it over with?"

I dutifully got to my feet and headed straight for the floor-to-ceiling window.

The housekeepers screamed and grabbed me before I could make contact.

Eric stared at me like I'd lost my mind, speechless.

"Women are so damn exhausting," his friend said, arms crossed. "Friends help each other out—you're acting like the world's ending. Total mood killer."

"Get lost," Eric snapped, irritation flooding his features. "You're an eyesore. Just looking at you pisses me off."

I blinked, then without hesitation, jumped from the second-floor balcony.

The servants' panicked screams pierced the night air as my consciousness scattered in the wind.

When I groggily opened my eyes again, Eric Harrison's voice filtered through the door.

"She's fine. Just attention-seeking bullshit."

"Second floor's barely anything," he scoffed. "There's a tree right there. Pure theatrics."

His childhood friend Clara Murphy laughed. "After coming back from the psych ward, she's gotten really good at playing the victim."

"Does she really think if something was going on between us, she'd even be in the picture?"

"I know every mole on your ass, Eric. Giving you a hand job is nothing. Does she have to act like she's dying over it?"

"Seriously," someone chimed in. "She scared the hell out of Clara. Think she did it on purpose?"

Clara huffed. "I don't care. She scared me half to death—my heart rate still hasn't gone down. You need to deal with this."

"Let me check..." He pressed his ear against her ample chest, teeth grazing her nipple.

His tone was mocking. "Wow, it really is racing. All that soft flesh, but you've got no guts?"

"How about I have her cut out her heart as an apology?"

"A wife must obey her husband completely..."

The conditioning echoed through my skull like a religious chant.

I trembled as I climbed out of bed, found the fruit knife on the table, and pushed open the door. I knelt before Clara.

Fighting to control my shaking body, I forced a pleasing smile.

"I'm sorry. I'll make it right."

I pressed the blade against my chest and dragged it down.

Skin split. Blood welled up.

The air froze.

In the next second, Eric grabbed the knife as I tried to cut deeper.

Blood dripped from between his fingers.

Clara shrieked. The others scrambled to call the doctor.

"Helen!" He flung the knife away, his face ashen. "Are you done with this bullshit?"

"If you're going to keep pulling these stunts for attention, believe me—I'll send you right back to that place."

Instantly, my breathing turned ragged.

Shock collars. Whips. Waterboarding. Dark cells. Hands crawling over my body. The hellish memories flashed through my mind in rapid succession.

Overwhelming nausea surged up. I nearly bit through my cheek trying to suppress the metallic taste rising in my throat.

The doctor arrived.

While everyone crowded around Eric, I covered my mouth and rushed to the bathroom.

By the time I came out, his hand was already bandaged.

"Come here," he said coldly. "Let the doctor check your wound."

I walked over instinctively, eyes vacant, letting the doctor position me however he needed.

But my body wouldn't stop shaking.

The doctor's expression grew increasingly grave. Eric frowned. "What? Is it that bad?"

The doctor shook his head. "The wound itself is superficial, but Ms. Johnson's physical responses are abnormal. She needs a comprehensive psychological evaluation."

When the report came back, the doctor asked hesitantly, "Mr. Harrison, you mentioned sending her to a psychiatric facility. Was it a legitimate institution?"

The diagnosis read: Patient exhibits severe Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, accompanied by dependent personality disorder manifesting as extreme compliance, and emotional detachment characterized by complete dissociation from normal affect.

Eric went rigid.

"Of course it was legitimate. I personally selected it," Clara broke the silence, her tone confident. "That facility sent me her monthly psychological evaluations. She never showed any abnormalities."

"Come on, big guy, you're not actually buying this, are you?" She glanced at Eric, whose resolve was beginning to waver. "Have you forgotten how unreasonable she used to be? Arson, poisoning—she's done it all. How could someone like that suddenly become so docile just from learning some manners?"

Her voice rose. "I think she's just gotten better at acting! Hurting herself like this—that takes some serious calculation."

"I'd bet my future happiness she's faking!"

"You?" Eric chuckled, ruffling her hair. "What man would want you?"

"If you're blind, go get it checked," she said, playfully punching his shoulder. "Then again, somehow you managed to get a wife."

"Too bad she's nothing but trouble. I bet she's about to start causing problems again. Think she'll try to get revenge on me?"

"She wouldn't dare." He took her words to heart, his gaze turning icy as he looked at me. "From now on, you do everything Clara says. Stop going after her like you used to. Understand?"

Memories flooded back.

The night I hemorrhaged from an ectopic pregnancy, he'd said over the phone, "Just hold on. I'm at her birthday party."

My late mother's pearl necklace—she mentioned she liked it once, so he gave it to her. Because she was the friend who'd taken a bottle to the face for him.

Our anniversary dinner at an upscale restaurant—she "coincidentally" showed up, and he spent the entire evening gaming with her, never looking at me once.

I'd fought. I'd made scenes. I'd broken things.

The more I did, the more annoyed he became, until she said there was a place that could fix me.

"Disobedient women need to be trained. I can pull some strings to get her into a psychiatric facility. She'll come back compliant."

He'd agreed.

When I refused, he said, "Forgot your mother's buried in the Harrison family plot? Refuse, and I'll have someone dig up her ashes and scatter them."

I had no choice.

But after I came back, I only grew more erratic, so he had her send me to different facilities, over and over.

Until the eighth time, I finally learned to obey.

Just like now.

I nodded compliantly.

Over the next few days, Clara escalated her tests.

On a stormy night, she sent me out to buy batteries for her gaming controller. I walked over ten miles before finding an open store, delivering them to her intact.

She'd dump a plate of rice mixed with dirt on the floor and make me eat it all. I'd obediently scoop up the grains, chewing methodically, then lick the floor clean.

She even deliberately gave me a huge bouquet of lilies. I simply thanked her calmly and accepted them without complaint.

Not until I went into anaphylactic shock and was rushed to the hospital did she lose her patience.

When I woke up, she pointed at the pool outside the window. "You're so obedient, right? Go ahead and jump in then."

Her voice was firm. "Let's see if you can keep up this act!"

I pulled out my IV line and slowly walked to the window.

I glanced back at Eric. He just stood there, arms crossed.

As I lifted one foot over the ledge, he seemed about to say something, but ultimately looked away.

I couldn't tell if he was waiting for me to break character, or if he simply didn't care.

Either way, he'd clearly forgotten that I was afraid of water.

I turned back, trembling as I lifted my other foot, squeezed my eyes shut, and jumped.

Water splashed. In an instant, I sank to the bottom.