Chapter 5
The day I was discharged, Dad didn’t come to pick me up.
I waited for hours. My phone only had a few words he’d sent that morning: “Emergency meeting.”
I even convinced myself he was just busy–just too busy.
Finally, I flagged down a taxi and went home myself, carrying my pill bottle, crutches, and arm in a splint.
As the car pulled into our driveway, my stomach churned.
The house was quiet in the wrong way–not “peaceful” quiet, but the kind of “silence” where some beast is holding its breath, waiting to pounce.
I limped up and pushed open the door.
Before I could even say “I’m home,” a half–empty vodka bottle came flying, smashing hard into my freshly set,
splinted arm.
After the “crash,” everything went white and I nearly passed out.
“Why couldn’t you just die out there and save everyone the trouble?” Mother shrieked.
She was sprawled on the couch, her eyes wild and vicious, like a drunk snake.
I covered my wound, tears streaming down my face, and turned to my father in his recliner.
He sat there holding his tablet, scrolling through screens like he was browsing news.
He didn’t move. Didn’t look at me. Didn’t even frown. Did nothing.
He had once been the father, who hid me in his closet trying to shield me from the rage.
But now he was just a silent spectator, like watching a silent movie.
Mom noticed his indifference, as if it fanned her flames even higher.
She rushed over, yanked away my crutch, and shoved me hard to the floor.
I crashed onto the hardwood, my broken leg feeling like rusty nails driven into my bone marrow, the pain nearly making me faint.
I struggled to lift my head, my voice trembling and broken:
“Mom… what did I do wrong? Do I have to die to make you happy?”
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Chapter 5
She spat on the floor next to my face and smiled coldly.
“Exactly. I wish you’d never been born.”
f
Then she raised my crutch like a baseball bat.
The first blow hit my back like lightning splitting my spine.
I screamed when the second one came down.
But no one heard. The neighbors all lived in mansions dozens of meters away.
Our “upscale community” had excellent soundproofing.
Third blow, fourth blow…
I was so delirious with pain that I could only look at my father–that man less than ten feet away from me.
“Dad… please… save me…”
He finally spoke.
“You made your mother angry,” he said, his tone so calm he might have been commenting on the weather. “She
needs to vent.”
In that moment, my heart broke before my body did.
My voice shaking, I asked: “You watched it, didn’t you? You promised you wouldn’t… you said you loved me…”
The moment I finished speaking, Mom’s hand trembled slightly, as if stung by something.
But Dad just stood up, walking toward me with a frown like I was a dirty towel.
He lifted his foot and kicked me in the ribs. Not hard, but humiliating enough.
He looked down at me, his eyes ice–cold, as if he’d never loved me.
What pictures? Stop making excuses. You deserve this. Having a child like you, your mother might as well end it
l.”
heard something inside me shatter completely.
My father–the man who had once told me he’d “love me until death“-was now standing with my mother, ncouraging her to kill me.
He must have watched them. Those pictures. Everyone had watched them.
ust then, familiar laughter echoed from the stairs. My perpetually perfectly–styled, designer–clad sisters were home.
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Chapter 5
They stood in the doorway for a second, saw me lying on the blood–stained floor, then rolled their eyes in perfect synchronization, like I was just a stain on the carpet.
They turned and went to their rooms, shutting their contempt behind closed doors.
I don’t know how much time passed before Mom finally stopped.
Not out of mercy, but because she was tired.
Dad gently wrapped his arm around her waist, like guiding a wife who’d worked overtime upstairs to rest.
They chatted and laughed as they went upstairs, as if I weren’t their daughter but an eyesore bloodstain on the
carpet.
I couldn’t move.
I didn’t know what I’d done wrong to make an entire family want me dead.
I couldn’t stay here anymore.
Deep in the night, I dragged my half–broken body, hiding my pain, and quietly packed a few clothes into a travel bag.
I was going to run.
As I passed Dad’s study, I saw weak blue light seeping through the slightly open door.
I stopped. I don’t know why, but some instinct pulled me closer.
I gently pushed the door open.
Mom was sitting in his office chair, staring at the computer. A familiar album screen flashed on the screen – those
photos.
The pictures everyone had watched.
I stood in the doorway, my breathing stopped.
On the screen, photos were slowly flipped through as mom clicked the mouse, and face after face of smiling, but pale, hollow–eyed girls flashed by.
Then the photo was switched to some images that were simply indescribable.
Cut hair, faces with slap marks, and even wounds on… private parts.
Brutal. Disgusting. Horrible to the point of being unreal.
I wouldn’t dream of misrecognizing those faces.
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Chapter 5
Those were my sisters, their faces, their hair, their bodies.
But in the photo they were smiling, making welcoming gestures. Even though their expressions were a void.
And I understood.
I finally understood why they all wanted me dead after watching those pictures.
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