My stepmother was infamous in our small town. Once a glamorous entrepreneur’s wife, she suddenly became a despised mistress that everyone scorned. No one expected that it would be her own son who truly made her notorious, catching her in bed with another man and stabbing her lover in a fit of rage. Afterwards, her photos spread like wildfire in every corner of the town. Gradually, people began to say she had offended someone powerful, which led to both her husband and son ending up in prison. Little did they know, I was the one who orchestrated her downfall. My father wished I was dead. I’ve known this since I was a child. Back then, prejudice against women was still deeply rooted. As the only person in town who had been admitted to a prestigious film school, my mother was renowned. It was said that many men dreamed of marrying her. My father, drunk one night, dragged her into a dead-end alley. No one called the police. Despite my mother’s cries and protests, she was eventually forced to hastily marry my father. My mother didn’t object because she was pregnant with me. In my memories, my mother was incredibly patient. My father was a good-for-nothing who only knew how to drink, gamble, and visit prostitutes. When drunk, he would beat his wife for not giving birth to a son, and me for being a daughter. Everything finally came to an end that year. It was the first time my mother fought back when she was beaten, trying to protect me, who was too young to understand. I watched with my own eyes as my father pushed her down, her head hitting the corner of the table. In my memory, blood stained the furniture. My mother didn’t open her eyes, while my father had already passed out from drinking. I cried until my voice was hoarse. In the end, my father shoved me against the wall. When I woke up, my mother was in the hospital. The doctor said she was already stiff when she arrived.
My mother died. Everyone said she had killed herself by hitting her head. My father finally broke free from the curse of not having a son. Within six months, he married a woman who was pregnant with his son. But life was still not easy for him because he had a burden – me. My maternal grandparents avoided me, after all, my mother and I were a disgrace to their lives. When my stepmother moved in, I smiled and handed her an apple box that I had been reluctant to eat. Heather was pleased, but when she opened it, her face turned pale. It was a rotten apple with worms on it, which made her vomit for a long time. My father slapped me across the face because I had offended the woman he had just married. Although people in our small town weren’t wealthy, they cared a lot about their reputation. Fearing being labeled as a wicked stepmother, Heather chose to persuade my father to calm down for the first time. Even though I had a stepmother, life became a bit better. At least I didn’t have to worry about food and drink. My father had married a wealthy woman this time. However, while other little girls were playing with dolls, I was already standing on a stool cooking at that age. Perhaps due to long-term eating leftovers, I was exceptionally small. Sweeping and mopping the floor felt like a nightmare. I never cried. At least someone gave me food so I wouldn’t starve, and old clothes to wear so I wouldn’t be cold.
I thought everything would go on like this until my brother was born. Only then did I realize that some children are raised with utmost care and love. Caleb had everything I had seen and hadn’t seen. As for me, I went from serving two people to becoming my brother’s nanny. During those years, it was my fault if my brother cried or fell. It was my fault if he got into fights with others or failed his exams. He was actually an unruly bully in his private school, while I was just an unremarkable student in a public school, straining my voice to recite lessons. After being beaten numerous times, I tried screaming desperately. At first, my classmates and teachers would show concern about the bruises on my body. But that woman, who had become a hero by giving birth to a son and helping my father become an entrepreneur, only needed one sentence to turn me into a laughingstock. It was the first time someone attended a parent-teacher conference for me. In front of everyone, Heather said to the teacher, “She’s sick, just like her mother. She’s crazy.” After that, I became an outcast in our small school community. All because my mother had allegedly gone crazy after marrying my father.
What was I like when I truly went crazy? I didn’t cry when everyone pointed and whispered about me, because I knew tears were useless. Otherwise, my mother wouldn’t have died. I could only vent by reading aloud, but after that, they thought I was even crazier. No one pays attention to a crazy person. Finally, I went from being the last in class with no one caring to ranking fifth in the class. The teachers’ eyes looked at me differently. But I never expected that a severe beating would be waiting for me when I got home. Caleb was still at the bottom of his class, no matter how much money my stepmother spent to get him into advanced classes. That day was his birthday. When Heather saw my report card, her face turned pale the next second, and she slapped Caleb across the face, “I’ve spent all the money on you, and you’re still worse than a crazy person!” She couldn’t accept that a crazy person was better than her son. Caleb’s birthday party was ruined. He threw a tantrum at home and angrily ran out. Heather had a fight with my father, mainly complaining about why I, the burden, was smarter than her son. I didn’t expect that man to praise me, but I never imagined that in the dead of night, he would pin me down under the covers and viciously beat me with a belt, over and over again. I was terrified and in pain, screaming frantically. It was the first time I deeply realized that although we were both his children, there was an insurmountable gap between my brother and me. The feeling of suffocation terrified me. I was afraid of him. I had always been afraid of him. I was scared that I would die like my mother. I don’t know if he got tired of beating me or if he was scared by my stillness, He dropped a nasty comment, “Why don’t you just die with your mother?” I didn’t cry. I pinched my skin. It hurt.
I returned to school covered in bruises. Under the teacher’s watchful eyes, I tore up all my books. Someone said, “Aria Collins has really gone crazy.” I bit my lip hard. I wasn’t crazy, I simply wanted to live. Gradually, the teachers stopped caring about me, my classmates avoided me, and later, everyone wanted to bully me. Faced with seemingly ridiculous provocations, they laughed, and I laughed along with them. Then I took out a fruit knife from my bag. I waved the knife in front of them a few times. I clearly saw fear in their eyes. Faced with my crazy behavior, they were all scared. It seemed I really was crazy. I started skipping classes, hiding in the deserted corners of the school. At home, I became even more cautious, but Heather looked at me with increasing disgust. She would encourage Caleb to bully me, let him pour food on me, and then point at my miserable state and laugh, “Aria Collins, you’re not even as good as a dog!” I didn’t argue back. Amidst their mockery, I stuffed the food on my face into my mouth, smiling and telling Caleb to continue. After a few times, Caleb gradually became less happy about it. Later, he would just hit me a few times when he was displeased with me. When things didn’t go his way, he would viciously pinch the inside of my thigh, then laugh like a maniac. Heather pretended not to see, only running out to point at my head when I wandered in the hallway showing my bruises, “Her illness has gotten worse, who knows where all these injuries came from.” To maintain her good reputation, she would wipe her tears and pull me back, but in the corners where no one could see, I smiled even more happily. Only when she called me crazy did the neighbors see me as a polite and well-mannered child. Gradually, the neighbors’ gossip about her increased. I admit, I was crazy, but I didn’t want to let her off easy either.
In sixth grade, those good students would privately discuss that the private middle school was a boarding school, and if you scored above a certain line, you could get free tuition. I excitedly went over to ask. Seeing me, they just treated me like bad luck and dispersed, but I silently took note. I stopped skipping classes and often stayed late at school to study before going home. After this happened many times, Heather waited at the door with a broom, “A girl staying out late and not coming home, don’t learn from your mother, only low-class women seduce men!” Probably afraid that her son would be worse than a crazy person, Heather was very wary of me staying late at school. She looked at me with contempt. I didn’t care, but I still rushed over and bit her hand, saying I was okay, but my mom wasn’t. I bit until blood flowed. “Aria Collins, you crazy girl, let go of me!” Heather struggled desperately, but to no avail. The broom in her hand hit my legs again and again, and gradually my legs went numb. She nearly lost a piece of flesh. I was crazy, and I could be even crazier. “Aunt Heather, don’t hit me! I didn’t mean to do better than my brother on the test!” I shouted desperately, watching Heather’s face gradually distort. Letting go of her hand, I smiled, while Heather slapped me across the face. My ears were ringing, but I could vaguely hear her cursing me, “Crazy girl!” Then she closed the door. She didn’t dare let the neighbors hear too much, after all, her good reputation had already been affected. In the dark hallway, I rubbed my aching legs and counted on my fingers. There were only three months left before I could leave this place. Then, I truly smiled happily. I studied even harder, because I had no other choice to escape. But Caleb knew I had bitten his mother, and he would torment me every day. He laughed as he tore up the test papers I had worked hard to copy, “Aria Collins, don’t think you can have it good.” I didn’t dare hit him, even though he was two years younger and not as tall as me, because I was afraid my father would beat me to death. Thinking of my mother, I endured it all. Fortunately, three months passed quickly. I studied day and night, shamelessly copying my classmates’ extracurricular study materials, counting down the days until the SAT exam. I felt like I woke up smiling every morning. Heather no longer dared to provoke me, she could only glance at me and curse under her breath, “Crazy girl.” I happily took the two pens I had bought with all my money, but before I could pack my bag, I ran into Caleb with a mischievous smile, “Aria Collins, don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to. I won’t let you have your way.” Before I could ask more, he rode away on his new mountain bike. I didn’t understand his smugness, but when I was packing my things, I was completely dumbfounded. My admission ticket was missing. After searching the entire house, Heather saw the mess I had made and pointed at my nose, cursing, “Ungrateful thing, are you trying to anger me to death!” I didn’t argue back, just looked in the direction Caleb had left and gritted my teeth as I chased after him. The weather was very hot. I chased aimlessly for three streets, but there was no sign of Caleb anywhere. Despair made my eyes red for the first time. The long run left a taste of rusty iron in my mouth. But I didn’t dare stop. I was afraid the tears would really fall.
Just when I was about to give up hope, I saw Caleb’s mountain bike. It was new, bought by my father just because all his classmates had one, so he had to have one too. At that moment, the shiny new bike was carelessly thrown on the ground. I rushed over, desperately grabbing Caleb’s neck, “Give me my admission ticket!” Out of fear, I even forgot that he was the son my father cherished. Although he was two years younger, he was already taller than me. He knocked me to the ground with one push, “Why should I give you your admission ticket?” His classmates started laughing, laughing at him for having such a sister. With red eyes, I watched how he told others I was not even as good as a dog, how he ridiculed me for being crazy. I didn’t dare to be afraid, because I still had to take the exam. I headbutted Caleb, knocking him down. I straddled him and hit him wildly, “Caleb Collins, crazy people don’t get the death penalty for killing!” Whether it was because I scared him or not, he threw out the torn admission ticket, and ran away with his classmates. I spent half an hour piecing it together, but I still missed the first exam. Having missed the first one, I saw Heather at the last exam. She rushed into the exam room with a black and blue-faced Caleb. I instinctively tried to hide.
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