After Killing Me Ninety-Nine Times For His First Love, He Repented And Went Crazy

My husband had killed me ninety-nine times.

The most recent time, he pushed me in front of an oncoming truck—to save his beloved first love.

Casually, he told someone to throw me in the trunk.

“Diana’s pregnant. She can’t stand the smell of blood. Don’t let her see too much of it.”

“You’d better keep it under control—don’t die in our car.”

I didn’t say a word. Just curled up in the trunk, waiting to die.

Someone tried to stop him. He shrugged.

“She’s died ninety-eight times. Every time she wakes up, she just apologizes.”