As I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the cracked paint on the walls, I couldn't help but wonder: how much longer could I keep this up? How much longer could I keep dragging myself through this nightmare, pretending that someday, somehow, it would get better?
But then my eyes landed on the one thing—the only thing—that kept me going.
Books.
Stacks of them, scattered across my desk and piled on the floor. Not just any books—my books. Novels I had written since I was twelve, their pages filled with dreams I had poured my soul into.
I reached for one, my fingers brushing the worn cover. It wasn't perfect—nothing I ever wrote felt perfect—but it was mine. Each word was a piece of me, a piece of the life I wanted to escape to.
"Dad," I whispered, gripping the book tighter. "I still remember what I told you."
It was so clear in my mind—his face, smiling and proud as he listened to my childish dreams. I want to be a big writer, Dad. Everybody will know my name. My books will get drama adaptations, and I'll be rich. I'll be…
"Happy," I finished aloud, my voice barely above a whisper.
Happy. That was the goal, wasn't it? To find a happiness I couldn't seem to grasp here. To take these stories, these pieces of my heart, and turn them into something bigger. Something brighter.
I closed my eyes, clutching the book to my chest. For a moment,
Because no matter how much this life tried to break me, as long as I had my stories, I wasn't completely lost.
Suddenly, the door burst open, slamming against the wall. My heart jumped into my throat as she stormed in—her face twisted with that same familiar look of disgust, like I was a stain she couldn't scrub away.
The witch who cursed my life.
"I told you to do the chores before you locked yourself in here, you ugly freak!" she spat, her voice sharp enough to cut. Her words hit like knives, and I didn't have time to dodge them.
"What's your problem, huh? You think you can sit here, dreaming like some prince in a fairy tale? You don't deserve love—not mine, not anyone's!"
My chest tightened as she stepped closer, towering over me like a storm cloud. "You'll never get anyone's love, you undeserving bastard," she hissed, her words dripping with venom.
I wanted to say something—anything—but the words died in my throat.
Her eyes darted to the table beside me. My table. The one I used for studying, for writing, for escaping. Before I could react, she grabbed the wooden scale lying there.
My stomach sank.
That table wasn't just for my dreams anymore. It was for my torture.
She didn't hesitate, raising the scale high above her head, her hand trembling with rage. "Maybe this will teach you to stop being useless!"
I flinched, instinctively raising my arms to shield myself, but I knew it wouldn't matter. It never did. Her anger always found a way to leave its mark.
As the first strike came down, pain bloomed across my arm, hot and sharp. My eyes watered—not from the physical pain, but from the overwhelming sense of helplessness.
She didn't stop. She never stopped.
And all I could do was sit there, biting my lip to stop myself from crying out, because showing pain only made it worse.
Because I was a bastard. A freak. A curse.
Because I was everything she said I was.
She made me miserable.
Every second in this house, every moment spent in her presence, chipped away at whatever strength I had left. The happiest I ever felt was when I was away from her—at university, walking the campus, sitting in the library. Anywhere but here.
I clutched my stinging arm, biting back the tears that threatened to spill. My thoughts raced, spiraling into a dark, endless void.
Zhen, I told myself, just finish this degree. Just hold on a little longer. Once you're independent, you can leave this place. Leave her. Forever.
But it felt so far away, like a light at the end of a tunnel I wasn't sure I'd survive.
I stared at the ceiling, my fists clenching so tightly that my nails dug into my palms. My chest heaved with a mix of anger and despair, my heart screaming questions into the silence.
God, why can't she just die?
The thought burned in my mind, unbidden but so painfully true. Why her? Why was she still here when everything good in my life had been taken away?
"Why?" I whispered hoarsely, my voice trembling. "Why did you take my father and mother but leave her?"
The words hung in the air, heavy with bitterness.
Do you hate me that much?
The silence was deafening. No answers. No comfort. Just the same suffocating weight pressing down on me.
I buried my face in my hands, shaking with frustration. Every day felt like a war I wasn't sure I could keep fighting.
Sometimes, I feel like I can never escape. Like I'm chained to this place, this life, this curse that I never asked for.
I just want it all to end.
I want to slice away my existence, erase myself from this world. Disappear. Just vanish into nothingness, where no one can hurt me, where no one can make me feel worthless anymore.
Disappear from everything that's ever made me sad. From every tear I've shed, from every insult, every bruise.
God, why does it have to be like this?
For once, I just want to have something to look back at, something—anything—that doesn't make my chest tighten with pain. Something that wasn't tainted by her cruelty, by my mistakes, by all the things I can't fix.
I want a life I can be proud of. A life that wasn't stained by misery.
But that's the thing. I don't know how to get there. I don't even know if I'm strong enough to keep trying.