Every night at eight, my husband kills me.
The first time it happened, I thought it was an accident.
That night, Chen Mobai was still in the kitchen wearing an apron and washing dishes.
At exactly eight, he dried his hands and walked out of the kitchen, holding a fruit knife.
“Honey, want an apple?”
Curled up on the sofa watching TV, I answered without thinking:
“Sure.”
Then the knife plunged into my chest.
I stared at him in shock. He even had a tender smile on his face.
As blood poured out, he gently held me and whispered in my ear:
“Sleep now. See you tomorrow.”
