My Hypocritical Wife

My name is Eric Lincoln. I am 32 years old and work as a junior designer at a renovation company. Every morning during the crowded subway ride, I would sketch clients' floor plans in my notebook; the rustling of the pen across the paper was my sole hope for a stable life. That afternoon, I sat at the folding table in my rented room, revising drawings, when suddenly a piercing alarm shattered the oppressive air like a sharp blade. At first, I thought it was a routine drill at the construction site next door, until a whiff of burning filled my nostrils and thick smoke seeped in through the door crack — only then did I realize something was terribly wrong: the building materials store next door was on fire. The crackling of the wooden stairs being devoured by flames grew closer, the heat scorching my skin until it ached. I instinctively backed toward the window, only to be struck in the calf by a falling beam. The sharp pain spread immediately; I collapsed to the floor, watching the flickering flames crawl up the curtains. Despair, like icy water, gradually drowned my heart. At that moment, the door was forced open just a crack—it was Viola Scott. She wore the cream-colored dress I had given her last month, its hem stained with soot and ash. The tips of her hair were singed yellow by sparks, and loose strands clung to her sweat-soaked forehead. "Quick, come with me!" Her voice was hoarse, like sandpaper scraping, as she raised a towel drenched in cold water and suddenly pressed it over my mouth and nose. I wanted to push her away, let her run first—she was so small and frail, usually unable even to twist open a bottle cap; how could she possibly lead me out of the fire? But her grip on my arm was ironclad, her knuckles whitening with exertion, her strength far greater than I had ever imagined. "Don't just stand there!" she hissed, dragging me toward the door. Just as we were about to step out the door, the beam overhead fell again. She instinctively shoved me toward the corner of the wall, yet the fallen plank pinned her back. I watched helplessly as the flames crawled up her skirt, the orange-red tongues licking her skin. Her screams were swallowed by the thick smoke, gradually weakening until they disappeared amid the crackling fire. When the firefighters broke in, I held the unconscious Viola Scott. Her clothes were reduced to burnt rags, her skin horribly scorched. My hands and body were stained with her blood and ash, my consciousness fading amidst the agonizing pain and choking smoke. When I woke again, I was lying in a hospital bed, my lower leg encased in thick plaster, my body wrapped in gauze. Every movement painfully tugged at the wounds, forcing me to grit my teeth. A nurse entered carrying medicine, and upon seeing that I was awake, she whispered, "You've finally awakened. You were unconscious for an entire day." I struggled to sit up, anxiously asking, "What about Viola Scott? How is my wife, Viola Scott?" The nurse's eyes darkened. She set down the medicine and said, "Your wife is still in the ICU fighting for her life. Seventy percent of her body is burned." "70%？" My head buzzed, as if struck by a heavy hammer, "I have to see her. I must go see her!"