The Mystery of Margorie Walker Read online

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  Her husband stared down at her. A beam of delight shone on his face as he saw her wake. Yet, she could not move. Every part of her body ached with unendurable pain. Her skin peeled off and detached from the flesh. Mr. Lefebvre told her that she had caught a mysterious unknown disease. The moment she heard it, she realized everything she encountered the other day was not a dream. As her limbs got more and more swollen, the pain increased to a point she could no longer bear. She cried in agony. Still, no one could help not. Not even her husband. No matter how brilliant he was, he could not find the cure. She could understand why. It was a disease meant to kill her. It was a disease caused by Margorie, who had come to take away her life. What stuck her heart even more was the way her husband looked at her. He used to care for her very much but now, he was watching her with fear. He was wearing gloves and mask whenever he entered her room. He did not even shed a tear to be honest. He had certainly lost the heart to love her dearly long ago. At the end of her life, Mrs. Lefebvre recalled all the things she had done. From the very beginning, her vanity and greed had cast an unbreakable spell on her fate. They had tortured her and ruined her. Her pursuit of pride, wealth and affection was the culprit of her tragic ending. More importantly, she had failed Margorie. She remembered how the little girl pled and begged but she still rejected her cruelly. When she was burnt, she did not sympathize with her a bit. Margorie had not come back for revenge. She just wanted her to understand how it felt to be the one suffering. It had to take her to the same condition. Only then would she realize the way she had put others into enduring.

  It was fair enough. She was punished. Harshly and deeply. No one would ever cry for her death, she knew. She had deprived this privilege of being admired and respected herself. The last thing she remembered before losing her breath were two streams of tears that went down her face. And don’t get it wrong. She didn’t cry for despair. She was just crying for herself. It was probably the first time she ever shed a tear since her first husband’s death. And yet, she spent that tear on herself. She was still as vain as could be…