A knife-wielding kidnapper goes on a rampage at the train station during the Spring Festival travel rush.
My husband pushes me, eight months pregnant, in front of the knife to protect his first love.
Terrified, I shield my belly with tears in my eyes. “I'm pregnant. How could you make me take the knife?”
The next second, the kidnapper's knife plunges into my belly, while my husband runs off with his first love.
I nearly think I'm about to die, but station staff help me to my feet.
“Are you all right? That was just a safety drill. The knife was fake, and your baby is still there.”
I sob uncontrollably. Blood stains the ground beneath me, while my husband and his first love have already boarded a train home.
“The man just now was your husband, right? Should we contact him to take you to the hospital?”
I shake my head. “No, he's my ex-husband.”
I take out my phone and book an abortion for three days later.
Once I've paid him back for this, we'll be even for the rest of our lives.
