Chapter 1Black Friday Bruises

My husband was a pathologically frugal man.

I once spent fifty dollars on Black Friday, and he beat me so badly my spleen ruptured. He said we had everything we needed at home, so spending money frivolously was a sin. The beating, he claimed, was what I deserved.

But that fifty dollars was for his own underwear and socks.

I called 911. He cursed and screamed, chasing the paramedics away, yelling that since I didn't have a job, I could just lie in bed for a few days and get over it.

I died that night.

He turned around and sued the hospital, claiming their negligence and refusal to treat me was the cause of my death. He extorted a huge sum from them, used the money to marry a new woman, and took her on a lavish European vacation.

When I woke up, reborn, I was staring at a newly opened package on the coffee table. Outside, I heard a key turn in the lock.

Trevor was home.

…

The sound of the deadbolt sliding back sent a tremor through my hands. I knew, the second Trevor walked through that door and saw the package, I would be met with fists like iron.

I scrambled into the bedroom, shoved the cardboard box deep into the closet, and frantically pulled his favorite Hermès pants over it, creating a messy pile.

Trevor burst in, his voice booming with false cheer. "Lina, honey! Come look what I found at the market! Your dinner is all set!"

I took the grimy plastic bag from his hand. Inside was a collection of wilted lettuce, bruised spinach, and yellowed cabbage leaves, along with a piece of fatty, discolored off-cut meat.

Trevor’s route home from the office took him past the farmers’ market. Every evening, he would scavenge the vegetables others had thrown away. That was my food for the day. He ate his lunch and dinner at the company cafeteria, only eating breakfast at home.

He placed another bag on the counter, this one containing fresh bread and milk, and stored it neatly in the fridge.

I clenched my fists, my eyes locked on his back, my mind racing, trying to figure out how to escape. This time, I would not be his lamb to the slaughter.

He turned and saw me staring at the refrigerator, misinterpreting my gaze completely. His voice sharpened into a warning. "Don't even think about touching my bread and milk. I have to work. I need to eat fresh food."

He sneered. "You don't work. As long as you're not starving, it doesn't matter what you eat."

But before our marriage, I had a better job than him, a higher salary. After I got pregnant, he begged me to quit, saying the baby was more important than money. When I came home, his mother was a constant, passive-aggressive presence, shaming me for not earning a living, for spending her son's money. She even forced me to collect cans and bottles to "contribute." The stress and exhaustion led to a miscarriage.

When I told him I wanted to go back to work, he confiscated my ID and bank cards, forcing me into the role of a full-time housewife.

And so began my life of eating rotten leaves.

I took the disgusting bag into the kitchen. I glanced over my shoulder; Trevor had gone into the bedroom. I immediately tossed the rotten vegetables into the trash and made a break for the door.

I was shoving my feet into my sneakers when I heard the closet door slide open in the bedroom.

A jolt of pure terror shot through me. I fumbled with my laces, my fingers clumsy with fear. Just as I got my shoes on, Trevor stormed out of the bedroom, his face a mask of fury.