Fred looked at my bruised face with impatience. He took the soup and said, "We have a maid. Why do you have to do these things yourself."
I sneered in my heart. In his eyes, To him, I was no different from a maid. Maybe worse than that. At least a maid got paid and wasn’t beaten.
I forced myself to hold back my nausea and said in a warm voice, "I want to make sure you get the best, Honey. Your health is my concern. I must do it myself to make feel at ease."
Perhaps seeing me act so nicely toward him, Fred's mood became better and he took a sip of the soup and then said, "I really love you. I don’t want to hit you, but sometimes I can’t control myself. You know the psychologist said I have a rage disorder. It's normal for my rage to flare out."
I wanted to ask why his disorder did not make him hit his parents or go berserk at the police station. Why did he only direct his anger toward me? Could it be that this disease was also specialized in targeting people?
In my past life, he always talked sweetly toward me after hitting me and I always forgave him because I thought it was my fault. I couldn't help but feel a little amused when I remembered my past reaction.