Trigger Warning: This story contains themes of suicide,and mental health struggles, which may be distressing for some readers. Reader discretion is advised. If you or someone you know is struggling, please consider reaching out to a trusted individual or mental health resource in your area.
It's a different kind of pain—one that sits heavy in your chest—when you look at yourself in the mirror and can't even cry. You stare, hating the face that stares back. The face you've seen cursed a thousand times by someone who should have cared for you.
"Why me?" Zhen Wo muttered to his reflection, his voice cracking under the weight of a question he had asked a million times. His hands gripped the cold sink until his knuckles turned white. "Why does it always have to be me?"
He hated everything: his face, his thin hands, his frail body. He hated the sound of his voice, trembling and weak, echoing in the hollow bathroom. He hated the way he flinched at every shadow, every distant sound, wondering if she was coming again.
It was all her fault. His stepmother. That one person who seemed to claw her way into every corner of his life and suffocate the light out of it.
No—he corrected himself bitterly—it was his fault. Everything was his fault. His father's death—his fault. His brother, suffocated in his crib—his fault. His cursed existence had ruined them all. That was the only thing she ever told him:
"You're a curse. Just go away. Why are you even here?"
The words replayed in his head like a broken record, their weight pressing down on his chest until he couldn't breathe. He slammed his fist into his chest, hoping—praying—for something to break, to shatter. Anything to let the pain out.
But it stayed.
"Why can't I cry?" His voice was a whisper now, trembling as the tears refused to fall. "Why can't I..." His words faded, and instead, a dry, desperate sound clawed its way out of his throat—a cry for help that no one would ever hear.
A sudden knock on the door broke the heavy silence. Zhen Wo froze, his breath hitching. He pushed himself up from the cold floor, steadying his shaky legs as he shuffled toward the door. He paused, staring at the handle, before finally opening it.
Standing there was one of his university friends, a guy who always seemed to have a smile plastered on his face—carefree, oblivious. But the smile faltered as soon as he looked at Zhen.
"Dude… you look sick," his friend said, frowning as he took in Zhen's pale complexion and the hollow look in his eyes.
Zhen forced a weak smile, though it barely reached his lips. "I'm fine," he lied, his voice flat and unconvincing. Without waiting for a response, he stepped past his friend, brushing off the concern in his gaze.
It was time for physical training.
I hated this time. God, I hated it so much.
When I got to the locker room, my stomach twisted into knots. I avoided everyone's gaze as I opened my locker and pulled out my training clothes. Every movement felt heavy, like I was dragging chains behind me.
Taking off my shirt was the worst part. I hesitated, gripping the hem of the fabric for a second too long before finally pulling it over my head. And then it came—the silence.
I could feel their stares, burning into my back like a brand.
I didn't have to look to know what they were seeing. Bruises. Layered on bruises. Angry purples, sickly yellows, and everything in between. Some old, some new, all of them screaming the truth I couldn't say out loud.
I swallowed hard and tried to push the thoughts away. It was all so routine now, like part of the day I had no choice but to endure.
Every night, I went home, and every night, the sickness started again.
The sickness that came with knowing she was there, waiting. The sickness that twisted my stomach into knots and made my skin crawl.
She wasn't just hurting me; she was killing me. Slowly. Stealing pieces of me until I was nothing more than a shell.
And no one—not my classmates, not my so-called friends, not even me—had the courage to stop it.
By the time evening fell, I found myself standing at the gate of our home—if I could even call it that. Home was supposed to be a place of warmth, a refuge from the world. But for me, it was a battlefield I was forced to return to every single day.
The promise my father made me give still echoed in my mind, sharp and heavy like the weight of chains.
"Zhen, take care of your mom."
Mom? He should've said, Take care of the curse I'm leaving you. That would've been more honest.
I stepped inside, and almost immediately, her voice sliced through the air like a dagger.
"Where the hell have you been?!" she screamed from the living room, her tone shrill and venomous.
I froze, my breath caught in my throat. She hadn't even seen me yet, but it didn't matter. Her anger wasn't about what I'd done or where I'd been—it never was. It was just there, burning and endless, always waiting to lash out at me.
I stepped through the doorway, bracing myself for the storm.
"Didn't I tell you to clean up this mess before you left this morning?! You're so useless, Zhen! Can't you do one thing right?" Her voice rose with each word, and she pointed to a table cluttered with papers I hadn't even touched.
I didn't answer. I never did. I just lowered my head, feeling the familiar surge of hatred bubbling in my chest.
I hated her.
I hated this house.
I hated myself for staying.
But then, the promise. That stupid, cursed promise.
"Take care of her."
It wasn't about love or duty anymore. It was about guilt. If I walked away, I wouldn't just be breaking a promise—I'd be failing my father. And for some reason, that thought always dragged me back to zero. Back to her.