They didn’t know it was hell.
The first day, they stripped me naked and
threw me in solitary. They fed me slop and
tried to break me. Every time I talked back,
they’d slap my mouth raw.
Dad’s slap brought back the memory of my
swollen lips, the ingrained terror making me
collapse to my knees. I trembled, clinging to
his feet. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I won’t do it
L
again, please don’t hit me, I’m begging you.”
Dad recoiled, stunned. He’d never seen his rebellious daughter beg. I started banging my
head on the floor. “I’ll atone, it’s all my fault, I
deserve to die, I deserve to die!” Everyone
stared, dumbfounded, watching the most
defiant girl they knew groveling. I grabbed the
scissors Chloe had dropped and plunged
them into my palm. Blood spurted, pooling on
the floor. Mom screamed. Chloe looked
shocked and uncertain. Chaos erupted,
someone called 911.
I didn’t make a sound. It didn’t hurt. Not
compared to the pain of being electrocuted until I lost control.
<
At the hospital, the doctor bandaged my hand, his face grim. Mom, still shaken, clutched her chest, tears clinging to her lashes. Dad’s face was tight. He gritted his teeth. “What are you trying to pull? Do you think hurting yourself will make us forgive
you?”
The old me would have laughed in his face.
Now, I just cradled my head, shrinking into
the corner of the bed, muttering, “I won’t do it
again, I won’t…” Dad seemed deflated, like
he’d punched a pillow. Silence hung heavy,
the blood from my hand spreading. Mom.
softened. “Ashley apologized. It takes time.
She’ll be good eventually.” Chloe frowned at
this, studying me thoughtfully.
Back home, my room had been redecorated.
The boxing ring mural was covered with plain
white wallpaper. My gloves were gone. My
closet was filled with dresses. They wanted to
erase me. But they didn’t know about the
emperor scorpion I kept in a hidden
compartment under my bed. It lay still,
seemingly dead. I felt a pang of
disappointment. But then a sliver of sunlight
hit it, and its purplish pincers twitched,
striking at the air. Still alive.
At dinner, the table was laden with food:
braised pork knuckle, sliced lamb, Peking
duck, and…clam chowder, which I was
allergic to. Mom smiled. “Chloe made all this
for you. We don’t usually get such a treat.
L
Make sure you eat a lot, Ashley.” Chloe piled
food on my plate, ladling me a bowl of soup.
The sight of the greasy meat made my
stomach churn. “I can’t, I feel sick,” I
whispered. Dad immediately dumped his
water over my head, his veins bulging, barely
restraining himself from hitting me. “We’re
doing this for your own good! Don’t be
ungrateful!” Mom chimed in, “When will you
appreciate what we do for you? Why do you
always hurt us?” They never listened. Just like
when they beat me into using my right hand,
even though I was left–handed. No one knew
how much they’d hurt my left arm.
Fine. I’ll eat. I numbly picked up my bowl, the
smell of lamb filling my nostrils. Fighting back
the nausea, I shovelled food into my mouth,
chewing mechanically. Chloe kept piling on more. I kept eating. Grease dribbled down my chin, my lips shining like sausages. After the
food, I drank the clam chowder, bowl after
bowl. Mom finally smiled. “See? I told you
she’d listen.”
Then her face went white. I vomited
everything onto the table. But I didn’t seem to
notice, still swallowing convulsively, soup
dripping from my mouth. A complete mess.
