07
As the nurse explained, I understood my situation.
The brutality of the death game, the pain of a C–section without anesthesia, and the trauma of losing my child had far exceeded what my mind could bear.
As a self–protective mechanism, I had fallen into a prolonged coma.
In simple terms, I had become a vegetative patient.
། རེད་་
My consciousness and emotions had left my body. What Dominic saw before him now was just an empty shell.
Dominic couldn’t accept that I had become vegetative. He invited top neurology experts from around the world for consultations.
He also visited families with vegetative patients who had woken up, carefully recording their experiences.
One million dollars… two million dollars… ten million dollars…
The man who once bet a million on my death now knelt and offered up millions.
Just begging for me to wake up.
But no matter how much money he spent or what methods he tried, he always got the same conclusion.
There was nothing he could do but wait for a miracle.
That day, Dominic was uncharacteristically silent. He silently listened to everything everyone said.
Silently kowtowed nine times, crawling from the foot of the temple mountain all the way to the main hall, lighting an eternal flame for our child.
But he found the monk had skipped the front row, placing the eternal flame among a row of prayer slips instead.
Dominic grabbed the monk’s robe, uttering his first words that day:
“Why… put it there?”
The monk pressed his palms together, his expression neither sad nor joyful:
“Mrs. Aria said she had never prayed for herself in her life. All her wishes were contained within these few inches.”
“The young one has ascended to paradise early. How is that not a fulfillment of wishes?”
Dominic stood rooted to the spot, his fists clenched so tightly his uncut nails dug into his palms, blood trickling between his fingers.
He asked the monk, “May I… see Aria’s prayer slips?”
“Of course. They were meant for you originally.”
Dominic knelt by the Buddha statue in the candlelight, slowly unfolding the thick stack of prayer slips.
The first one, written shortly after our marriage, was full of a young girl’s hopes:
[Dominic and I are married now. Though he only has a simple band, he promised to upgrade it to a giant diamond within 10 years – the most dazzling one on TV! I pray for Dominic’s career success and hope we can have an adorable baby soon.
Dominic’s fingers holding the slip stiffened. He had promised, but he forgot.
Instead, he bought Vivian a pink diamond the size of a pigeon egg, the most brilliant in the jewelry store.
He took a few deep breaths before continuing.
The second slip was written much later, on our third anniversary. The tone carried a hint of weariness:
[Dominic left again on our anniversary. Though I smiled and told him to go, my heart was bitter. He’s so busy he’s given me the same anniversary gift two years in a row, too busy to even attend my father’s funeral. But at least his career is flourishing now. This time I pray for an adorable baby.]
Dominic remembered. On their third anniversary, Vivian’s dog had fallen ill.
That dog had been her companion for fifteen years.
To comfort Vivian, he had gathered all the city’s doctors for the dog’s hospice care. But when he returned home, he learned
my father had been left on the operating table and died from his injuries.
Dominic’s chest felt like it was crushed by a boulder, leaving him gasping for air.
He opened the slips one by one until a new one made him pause.
[I pray for my child to be born safely and grow up healthy.]
This was the shortest prayer slip, but Dominic stared at it for a long time.
For the first time, Dominic’s name had disappeared from my writing. Perhaps I was content with the status quo and had no other wishes.
Or perhaps, I no longer had any expectations for this man.
