She had been married to him for three years and had never had a child.
It's not that you can't get pregnant. It's him who can't.
At night, his fingers roamed her body. Not touching. It's a measurement. It was an inventory - the fingers were white and the knuckles were thin, from the collarbone to the waist, inch by inch, as if to confirm whether this thing was still his.
She lay facing the wall. There is a hole in the wall, the size of a pinhole, letting light through.
There is someone behind the hole. She knows. She didn't stop. Blocked = admitted knowing = admitted wanting to be seen = admitted she was crazy. More importantly, blocked = no one saw = no one knew she was alive = she was dead. People in the penal colony are alive only when they are seen.
His fingers stopped. He pinched the softest piece of flesh on her waist.
"Turn around."
She didn't move.
He pinched again. Deeper. "You only remember when it hurts."
She turned around and faced him. He looked at her, his eyes shining in the dark like a wolf.
It wasn't like this before. In the past, when the son of the minister of household affairs saw her, he would kneel down, bow his head, and say "Hail Princess". She didn't need to return the favor, just a nod was enough. His hands never touched hers. It's not that I don't dare, it's that I don't deserve it.
Now he was making her hurt.
"Everything you have now is from me."
