I went home alone, curled up in pain, drenched in cold sweat. I took some sleeping pills, telling myself, “If I sleep, it won’t hurt.” In a daze, 1 dreamed of when I was twenty, Wesley was poor but loved me very much. That year on my birthday, as I passed a coffee shop, I saw a couple by the window. The girl held a snow–white cake, looking exquisite, delicious, and expensive, I remember it snowed heavily that day. I held a small pile of snow, smiling at Wesley, asking, “Wes, doesn’t this pile of snow look like a cake? Wesley bit his lip, hugged me tightly, not letting me see
his secretly reddened eyes. Three days later, he showed up at my dorm with a big cake. A whole cake cost 258 bucks. But standing in the snowy street, handing out 3,000 flyers only earned him 100 bucks. Seeing his frostbitten fingers, I cried helplessly. Looking up, I shouted at him. “Wesley your hands can be used for studying and writing, but not for ruining them to make me happy” I said, “I don’t deserve such an expensive cake at all…” Wesley frowned, immediately refuting me. He said, “Phoebe, you’re the best girl in the world. You deserve all the good things in it.” That day, I cried and ate the whole cake. I can’t remember its taste anymore. I just know I never had a better cake since. I slept for a long time, vaguely hearing my phone ring. Answering it, I heard Wesley’s voice, “Phoebe.” I smiled softly, sweetly calling him, “Wes, it’s snowing heavily, 1 want cake.” Before he could reply, I turned and fell back into a deep sleep.
I slept until midnight, waking from hunger. I went to the living room and found Wesley had returned. He bought Cora a big house. They lived there together. Cora cooked for him, made him happy, and waited for him to come home. Wesley was living well; he hadn’t been back for a long time. He lazily leaned against the window, cigarette in mouth, staring straight at me. I lowered my eyes, passing him when he grabbed me. He frowned, softly asking, “Why have you lost so much weight?‘ His tone was gentle, as if he still loved me. I paused, yanking my hand away, cursing, “Wesley, what are you doing?” He looked at his empty palm, expression slowly turning cold. When I reached the table and saw a cake with candles, I realized that call wasn’t a dream. I said I wanted cake, and Wesley bought it. Was this a peace offering? But I’m almost dead. I don’t need cake, and I don’t need Wesley anymore. I grabbed the cake and threw it in the trash. Wesley gritted his teeth, pinning me against the wall. He cursed angrily, “Phoebe, are you messing with me? I laughed, admitting, “Wesley, I am messing with you, so what?” “I said I wanted cake, and you bought it Why are you still as pathetic as before?”
I told Wesley Miller I wanted a piece of cake, so he went ahead and got one for me. Was this supposed to be some kind of peace offering? But I’m at the end of my rope; I don’t need cake, and I certainly don’t need Wesley Miller anymore. I tossed the cake into the trash. Wesley clenched his teeth and slammed me against the wall, snarling, “Phoebe Johnson, are you playing games with me?”
1 chuckled, acknowledging, “Yes, Wesley, I’m messing with you. So what?”
“I mentioned wanting cake, and you got it. You’re just as pathetic as ever, aren’t you?”
Itwisted the metaphorical knife deeper, watching as Wesley’s expression turned licy
He stubbed out his cigarette forcefully and dragged me into the bedroom, throwing me onto the bed. Wesley seemed to have lost his mind; like a wild beast, he roughly tore open my nightgown. I panicked, my fists pounding on him, “Wesley, you jerk! Don’t touch me! You disgust me!”
He pinned my legs, halting my struggle, then bit my neck, drawing a cry of pain from me.
