I used to believe in fate. I used to believe that bad things happened to good people, and sometimes, you just drew the short straw. My life was a vibrant tapestry – a dream job finally within reach, a beautiful home, and a love that felt like it could conquer anything. We were planning a future, painting mental pictures of children and quiet evenings by the fire. Then, in one split second, the tapestry unraveled.
It was a Tuesday. A normal drive home. A sudden swerve, a screech of tires, a sickening crunch. The world went black, then burst into a thousand shards of pain. I remember the cold asphalt against my cheek, the smell of burning rubber, and a silence that was louder than any scream. My legs… my legs just went numb. That was the moment my old life died.
The hospital became my new home. Weeks bled into months. Surgeries, therapies, a constant, agonizing fight for every inch of sensation, every flicker of hope. They told me I might never walk again. Never walk again. Those words echoed in the sterile halls, bouncing off the faces of kind, pitying strangers. My career, the one I’d worked my entire life for, was gone. My independence, shattered. I was broken, physically and emotionally. I felt like a ghost haunting my own body.
But there was one constant, one unwavering beacon through the darkest nights: my partner. They were there, always. Holding my hand when the pain was too much, feeding me when I couldn’t lift a spoon, carrying me when I couldn’t manage the wheelchair ramp. They quit their own job, took on mountains of debt, learned to navigate the maze of medical jargon and insurance forms. How could anyone be so selfless? They were my rock, my voice, my everything. Everyone marvelled at their devotion. I did too. I told them constantly, “You saved me. You are my reason to live.”
Years passed. I learned to adapt. I found new ways to exist, to find small joys. But the ghost of my former self always lingered. There were good days, and then there were days when the grief would hit me like a tidal wave, leaving me gasping for air. On those days, my partner would just hold me, whisper reassurances, remind me of our enduring love. Our love. It was the anchor that kept me from drifting completely away.
Then, a few weeks ago, something small shifted. I was going through old boxes, trying to declutter, when I found a worn notebook. It was mine, from before the accident. Filled with notes, ideas, contact numbers for a dream project I was pursuing overseas. A project that would have taken me away for at least a year, possibly more. A big opportunity. I remembered the arguments we’d had about it. My partner hadn’t wanted me to go. They’d said it was too risky, too far, too long. We’d eventually agreed I’d put it on hold, just for a little while, until we were more financially stable. A compromise.
As I flipped through the pages, a loose, folded piece of paper fell out. An old email printout. It was a confirmation from the overseas company. My start date had been finalized. Two days after the accident. I remembered feeling a surge of excitement, a secret thrill, even as I prepared to tell my partner that I’d postponed it. I hadn’t told them yet. I wanted to wait for the perfect moment.
My heart started to pound. Why hadn’t I remembered this? My memory of the pre-accident days was hazy, fragmented. The trauma. I chalked it up to that. But something felt… off.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. My mind raced. What if? No, it was absurd. My partner loved me. They sacrificed everything. But the image of their face during those arguments, the tension in their jaw, the way their eyes had seemed to plead…
I started looking. Not actively, not like a detective, but with a quiet, creeping dread. I went through old financial statements, insurance claims, police reports that my partner had handled so diligently. I found discrepancies. Small things at first. A missing phone record from the accident day. A minor detail in the police report that didn’t quite match my fragmented memory of the road, the curve. No, no, I’m just being paranoid.
Then I found it. Hidden deep in an old, rarely used external hard drive, filed under what I thought was a tax document. It was a dashcam recording. Not mine, but from a car that had been behind us. The angle was perfect.
I clicked play, my breath catching in my throat. The road. My car. My partner driving, because I’d had a headache that day. I watched, my heart hammering against my ribs, as the scene unfolded. A normal drive. No other cars speeding. No sudden animal. No mechanical failure. Just a straight stretch of road.
And then, I watched as my partner’s hand, so familiar, so loving, deliberately, methodically, yanked the steering wheel hard to the left.
My car veered. The tires screamed. The impact. The horrifying sound. My body flying forward. Then, the screen went black.
I stared at the black screen, unable to breathe, unable to think. The silence in the room was deafening. My world, which had already been shattered once, crumbled into dust. It wasn’t an accident. It was deliberate. My partner. The one who had sworn to love me, to protect me, to cherish me. The one who had spent years caring for my broken body.
They didn’t save me. They broke me. They orchestrated my misfortune. And they kept me, dependent, grateful, broken, for years. All because I wanted to chase a dream that didn’t include them for a little while. I think of their loving touch, their patient smiles, their endless sacrifices. Every single one of them was a performance. Every moment of care, a lie. Every gentle word, a poison.
MY GOD.
The reality is colder, sharper, more utterly terrifying than any fiction I could ever have imagined. I’m not just a victim of an accident anymore. I’m a prisoner of the person who claimed to be my saviour. And I don’t know what to do.
