My foster brother suffered a brain injury, and I was the only one who could wake him up. But he died during the treatment. Afterward, my parents took me to court, screaming that I should pay for his life with mine. I calmly sat in the defendant’s seat. I had been waiting for this day for a long time. I was going to personally send them to hell. I’m the most capable brain repair specialist in the country. I’ve successfully revived coma patients, creating medical miracles, and even stood on the world’s most prestigious stages. Now, I’ve become the disgrace of the medical field, scorned by everyone online. Countless netizens are calling for me to be kicked out of the profession. And it’s all thanks to my biological parents. A month ago, my foster brother, James Miller, was in a car accident that caused a brain injury, putting him into a coma. Every doctor was at a loss. My estranged parents found me, using every method they could to force me to save him. But they never expected James to die during the treatment. In their grief, I became their target for revenge. They accused me of being a fraud, a killer. Not only did they cry out on every platform about how ungrateful, rebellious, and defiant I was, but they also took me to court, demanding I pay with my life. Today is the day of the trial. The moment I appeared, I was bombarded by microphones. “Dr. Harris, your parents claim that after you became successful, you never gave them a dime, and you even blocked their contact. Is that true?” “You’re known as the miracle doctor who can revive coma patients. Why did your foster brother die during treatment? Is there something you’re not telling us?” The questions from the reporters were getting more intense by the minute. My bodyguard and assistant, Megan King, was pale as snow. I held her cold hand, my gaze cutting through the crowd to meet the hateful eyes of my parents in the distance. I suddenly smiled. “Everything will be decided in court. I believe the wicked will go to hell!”
The trial began. I sat in the defendant’s seat, bored, listening to my parents on the plaintiff’s side lay out my supposed sins. Rebellious since childhood, always hanging out with a street gang, refusing to change. After becoming successful, I never cared for my parents and even publicly claimed to be an orphan. During the treatment of my foster brother, I abandoned the procedure before it was completed, causing his mind to become unstable, which led to his death. By the end, they were in such agony that my biological mother looked like she wanted to leap across the room and beat me. “Order! Lily Harris, do you admit to the charges brought against you by the plaintiffs?” the judge said, tapping the gavel. “What they said is true, but I don’t think I’m guilty,” I said, nodding calmly. The courtroom erupted. On every live stream, the screens were filled with angry comments. “She’s so arrogant. Just throw her in jail already!” “She made her money and thinks she’s above her parents. Heartless!” “Just sentence her now!” Amid the barrage of curses, I raised my hand and pointed to my head. “But every story has a reason. Why don’t we let the Cerebral Interface System access my memories? Let everyone see just how ‘horrible’ I really am.” “No!” Before the judge could respond, my parents jumped in, objecting to the use of my memories, saying it would be biased. “Oh? Well then, let’s use the memories of the deceased, my foster brother—James Miller, instead,” I said pleasantly, offering them a solution they couldn’t refuse. Seeing them look relieved, I smiled even more mockingly. It’s always more painful to be betrayed by the ones you care about most.
The Cerebral Interface began playing James Miller’s memories. It was winter, and seven-year-old James arrived at our house. I was six. I was sitting on a little stool, scrubbing thick sweaters by hand, my fingers red and swollen like carrots. James looked shocked and asked my parents tearfully, “Did you adopt me to make me work?” “Of course not!” My mother’s voice was the softest I had ever heard, a tone she had never used with me. “You’re a boy. You don’t have to do this kind of girly work. Just grow up well, that’s all.” My dad pulled a piece of butterscotch candy from his pocket and popped it into James’ mouth. “Your clothes and shoes, Lily can wash them. And if she doesn’t listen, just hit her like this.” He demonstrated by kicking me. I tried to twist my body to avoid it, but I still ended up falling into the wash basin. Water splashed onto my dad’s shoes, and of course, that led to another beating. James watched, eyes wide with excitement, even finding it amusing. He pressed a finger against the large lump on my head, curious. “How come you don’t cry when you get hit? Are you mute?” The sudden pain made me forget to be cautious, and I shoved his hand away. Naturally, I was punished again. “He’s your brother. It’s his first day here, and you’re already hitting him. What’s next, killing the whole family?” my dad shouted. “Will you ever dare do it again?” The result of this little episode was that I wasn’t allowed to eat dinner. That night, after everyone had gone to bed, I snuck into the bathroom, still wearing my damp clothes, and drank from the tap as if my life depended on it. I’d known from a young age that crying or complaining would only make them angrier. Talking back would get me hit harder. Because I wasn’t the child they wanted. I was just a girl. The old lady next door once told me that for girls like me, education was the only way out. When I turned six, they would have to send me to school. Otherwise, the authorities would come knocking, and they were terrified of government people showing up. “Just six more months,” I whispered to myself, hugging my arms for warmth.
The Cerebral Interface switched to when I was thirteen. I was in middle school. James came home with a basketball in his arms. When he saw I hadn’t finished cooking yet, he hurled the ball at me. He swung his fist and yelled, “Trying to starve me? If you don’t hurry up, I’ll beat you to death!” I ignored him. The ball hit me hard, making me stumble, but I straightened up and kept cooking. When I finished, I rushed to the ping-pong table in the alleyway. There were a few teenagers there, all dressed like punks, waiting for me. “What took you so long? Start writing!” A few backpacks were thrown at me. I quickly pulled out their homework and got to work. Suddenly, I felt a heavy blow to the back of my head. My forehead slammed into the table. “You think we sent you to school so you could hang out with these lowlifes? You’re a disgrace!” my mother snarled, pointing a sharp finger at my face. My dad kicked me to the ground without missing a beat. I tried to explain that I was only earning money for lunch. They didn’t care. They were just venting their anger after losing at cards. “You’re bold now, huh? Not staying home to work, running around outside. You’ll end up in jail, just like these thugs!” I was used to their abuse by then, but I didn’t want them to insult my only friends. Wiping away my tears, I raised my voice for the first time, “They’re not bad people! They’re my friends. Without them, I’d have starved by now!” They were troublemakers, sure, but they had good hearts. They knew I had no money, so they’d let me write their homework in exchange for a meal. Though, in truth, they never actually turned in the homework. “Starve? It’d be better if you did! You’d save us some food!” “You still talking back? I’ll kill you today!” After another round of punches and kicks, I was dragged back home like a rag doll. “Mute girl, aren’t you supposed to be good at school? Let’s see if you’ll still take tomorrow’s test now.” James stomped on my already injured hand with his shiny new sneakers, eyes full of malice. He was jealous of my good grades. It was his way of warning me.
The Cerebral Interface paused, showing the contrast between the pristine white sneakers and my scarred hand. The reporters in the gallery were now somber, their aggressive attitudes gone, replaced with looks of condemnation directed at my parents. The live stream went silent for a while before comments started flooding in. “Poor Lily.” “These parents aren’t just sexist—they’re insane! He’s just a foster child, but their daughter is their own flesh and blood!” My parents saw the comments but didn’t care. In fact, they shamelessly retorted, “A daughter is only raised for someone else’s family. In the end, you rely on a son!” “Everyone’s kids get hit sometimes. That doesn’t excuse her for abandoning her parents and pretending she’s an orphan!” The judge banged the gavel, calling for order in the court. Once the room quieted down, the Cerebral Interface continued. This time, it showed James at sixteen. I had just been accepted into a prestigious high school as the top student in the county. The school leadership came to our house to congratulate me and brought along some school supplies. Many others came by to celebrate. But just as the atmosphere was at its peak, James dragged me, with my eyes swollen from crying, in front of the school officials. “Do you accept blind students at your school?” he sneered. Everyone went silent. Someone asked, “What happened? Can she still be treated?” I wanted to cry for help, but my mother clamped her hand over my mouth. My father, looking sorrowful, sighed and explained to everyone, “What else could have happened? I told her not to hang out with those gang kids, but she wouldn’t listen. Now look at her! She came back like this. We can’t control her anymore.” “Even if her eyes get better, how can we send her to school? She’s unruly, and her grades were never that good. Who knows how she got those top marks this time? It’s so embarrassing!” After their little performance, the people who had come to congratulate me started leaving, shaking their heads in disappointment. Soon, it was just the four of us in the yard. “Smack!” My mother slapped me across the face. “Were you about to tell them it was your brother who hurt you? I should have killed you when you were born!” James stood by, laughing cruelly. “What’s the point of seeing a doctor? It’s better if you’re blind, then you’ll stop trying to run away.” As their footsteps faded, I curled up in the dark corner, my world plunged into darkness.
The Cerebral Interface rewound James’ memories, showing the reason I had gone blind. After middle school, I knew my biggest challenge was how to pay for high school. Through some friends, I started selling jasmine flower bracelets at a local flea market. I didn’t make much, but I calculated that if I worked all summer, I’d have enough for my tuition. One evening, I had just set up my stall when James showed up with a group of his friends. They stomped on the flowers I had carefully gathered, destroying them. Then, they took the money I had worked so hard to earn. I tried to reason with him, but he grabbed my wrist and slammed me against the wall. He looked at me with disdain. “This house belongs to me. Who do you think you are?” He started to walk away. I swallowed my pride and grabbed his leg, kneeling at his feet. “Please, James, that money is for my school fees. Without it, I can’t go to school!” He sneered. “A girl like you doesn’t need an education. All you need to do is learn how to work and have kids. Who cares about school?” Then he kicked me aside. I followed him into an alley, pleading for him to return at least part of the money. He grew irritated, picked up a handful of lime powder, and threw it into my eyes. I screamed in agony, writhing on the ground. Through the pain, I heard my parents calling out to James. They had bought some bread and were inviting him home to eat. I forced myself to my feet, stumbling toward their voices. “Mom! Dad! James threw lime into my eyes. Please help me!” My mother’s response was cold. “Stop making things up. Why would James do that to you?” My father added, “Who knows what kind of trouble you’ve been getting into again? A girl like you, always running around—you’re an embarrassment to the family!” Their voices faded, replaced by the sounds of them coaxing James to come home for dinner. I was left alone in the dark alley.
Some friends from the gang found me the next day. By then, I had been lying in the backyard for a full day and night, feverish and swollen. They panicked at the sight of me. “You’re burning up! Your eyes are swollen shut. We need to get you to a hospital!” But just as they lifted me, my parents and James appeared. “Put her down. Where do you think you’re taking her?” my father demanded. “To the hospital, of course! If we leave her here, she’ll die!” my friends shouted back. They knew exactly what kind of life I had at home. They were just kids themselves, unable to help me escape before. But now, with my life on the line, they couldn’t stand by. Determined, they started to carry me out. “If you take her, you’ll have to keep her. Don’t bother bringing her back!” my father yelled. My friends hesitated, realizing the weight of the responsibility. They couldn’t afford to take care of me. James grabbed me by the hair and dragged me back, dumping a bowl of dirty dog water over my face. “Know your place, mute girl. You’ll never escape!” The filthy water splashed into my burning eyes, jolting me back into consciousness. With all the strength I had left, I pushed James to the ground. Then, kneeling on the ground, I turned to my parents and knocked my head against the dirt three times. I groped my way out of the house. I had finally seen the truth. If I stayed here, I would die. If I left, there was at least a chance I might live. “James, are you hurt? Does anything feel broken? Do you need to go to the hospital?” my mother fussed over him. “We’ll break her legs and hand her over to you for good, don’t worry,” my father added. They didn’t care that I had left. Because, in their minds, I would never truly escape.
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