My dad had broken the lock on my door long ago. All that was left was a hole where it used to be.

The thin door was covered with small cracks and stains that could not be cleaned. Each one was a sign of the violence he had caused.

He kicked the door open easily.

Without saying a word, he grabbed my arm, yanked me out of bed, and dragged me to the floor in one motion.

I was not prepared and felt dizzy from being pulled so suddenly.

My arm was twisted painfully, like it was about to pop out of its socket, and I could not stop myself from wincing.

Before I could even think, he slapped me hard across the face.

He was so much stronger than me that I could not fight back even if I wanted to.

I did not even have the chance to think about resisting before that thought was completely crushed.

He had a cigarette in his mouth, and smoke swirled around him. The glowing tip flickered, and he angrily shouted, “Just a few days without a beating, and you’re already acting out! Your stepmom bought you that phone to help with your studies, yet you spent the whole day playing on it!”

I tried to get up, but he slapped me again before I could.

“Did you finish your homework?! Did you get good grades on your exams?! Looks like all that studying was wasted on you! Your stepmom even cooked and called you to eat, but you didn’t come out! Do we need to feed you like a baby?!”

My face was on fire, and my ears were ringing. My ears, eyes, and scalp all throbbed with pain.

I did not dare look up. I stared blankly at his slippers and whispered nervously, “I didn’t…”

But I did not dare to explain myself.

My whole body was shaking.

“Didn’t what?! I’ve raised you all these years! Don’t I know exactly what kind of person you are?!”

His voice rumbled like thunder and shook the room.

He grabbed the dictionary from my desk and smashed it against my head.

I let out a scream, but I quickly swallowed it. Holding my head, I stayed quiet. I was too scared to make another sound.

Then came the third, fourth, and fifth slaps.

Each time I was knocked down, I would try to get up, only to be hit again.

Finally, blood started dripping from my nose, and he stopped.

My face no longer hurt. It just felt numb. Tears, snot, saliva, and blood mixed on my face, leaving a salty, bitter taste.

But he was not satisfied with just that. I knew he wanted me to say things like “I’m sorry” and “I won’t do it again,” just like before.

He would prefer if I cried and begged on my knees while saying those things.

This was how my dad and I had been since my mom left when I was in third grade.

But there was someone else in the house—Scarlett, the woman I hated more than anything.

I refused to cry or beg in front of her. I did not want her to see my pathetic side.

If she had not told on me to my dad…

If she had not given me that phone…

If she had not clung to my dad…

If none of this had happened, I would not be getting hit.

I hated her.

I hated her so much I wished she would just disappear.

That dark thought first appeared the moment my dad slapped me.

At first, the thought was just a faint idea, but with each slap, it became stronger and clearer.

I blamed everything on Scarlett.

I blamed her, even though she screamed and tried to stop my dad when he burst into my room, dragged me out of bed, and threw me on the floor.

In a panic, she grabbed his arm and tried to stop him. She even stepped in front of me a few times, only for him to shove her aside.

Her white nightgown smelled nice, and it made her face look even paler.

She shook as she raised her arm to stop my dad and repeatedly tried to defend me and plead for me. She was so nervous that she almost bit her tongue.

“No, no… don’t hit her, maybe I made a mistake…”

She tried to say nice things about me, even though we had barely spent any time together.

“Pearl is a good girl. She’s very polite. She even helped me with the dishes. She’s been doing her homework. She probably just wanted a break. Maybe she wasn’t playing on her phone.”

I watched her, and her fake concern made me sick.

My stomach twisted, and I started to gag.

I still blamed everything on her.

So, one night, I took the 20,000 dollars my dad had locked in the drawer and put it in her coat pocket.

My dad was a downright working-class person.

He liked to smoke, drink, gamble, and take his anger out on me.

Since he could not hit anyone else, he hit me.

Even at his age, he did not have a stable job. He just took whatever work he could find.

Sometimes, he fixed pipes; other times, he worked at construction sites.

He earned money only when he worked.

After divorcing my mom, he had been looking for a decent woman to settle down with for the rest of his life.

The first time I met Scarlett was when my dad forced me to go to a dinner with him.

He forced me there because she liked kids, especially girls.

He treated me like a gift to her.

However, I was quiet and boring, so Scarlett did not spare my dad a glance because of me.

She sat next to my godfather and often served him food, but he ignored her. She kept trying, though.

Not long after, my godfather died in an accident. He got drunk, fell off a ladder, and badly injured his head.

It happened in a corner of an alley. He lay there from 2 a.m. until 7 a.m. when a janitor found him and called an ambulance.

The doctors said he was brain-dead and that even if he survived, he would have been in a coma.

His wife quickly decided to turn off the life support.

At his funeral, there were no tears. People just sighed and looked numb.

I only looked at him from a distance. I saw someone put a coin in his mouth.

My dad said it was to stop him from talking after death.

My dad did not show much emotion about his friend’s death, even though they were as close as siblings. He just said, “He would be a burden to his family if he were alive.”

Scarlett did not go to the funeral. She just sent a condolence gift through my dad.

Looking back, I guessed she knew she was not welcome, or maybe she felt that after my godfather died, he no longer had any value to her.

I never hid my dislike for this awful woman.

I often thought that she was the one who caused my godfather’s death.

There was no real reason for thinking that. Malicious thoughts did not need a reason.

After my godfather died, she immediately turned to my dad.

I knew she wanted to kill him this time.

A week passed since she complained to my dad about me, and my cheek was still swollen.

The bruise on my forehead from when my dad hit me with the dictionary had not healed, and my hatred had not faded either.

My dad was unusually busy that week. He was working hard to make money to keep her happy.

Sometimes, he even stayed out all night.

After that day, she was more careful toward me, even when asking me to eat. If she heard even the smallest sound, like a pen dropping in my room, she would ask if everything was okay.

While my dad was trying to please her, she was trying to win me over.

She asked my dad about what I liked and bought a lot of small cakes. She would quietly bring them to my room, but I would put them in the living room without eating them.

After a few failed attempts, she could not take it anymore. One day at dinner, she awkwardly said, “I didn’t know your dad would get so angry. I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

Her spoon hit the plate, and she added, “Please don’t think badly of me. I’m not that kind of person.”

She picked up some meat and carefully put it in my bowl.

She watched me closely but pretended to act calm as she ate.

What kind of person?

She was evil, had a bad character, used dirty tricks, and had no dignity.

That was exactly the kind of person she was.

I did not want to talk about what she brought up.

So, I slammed my spoon down, went back to my room, and left her awkwardly alone at the table.

I tossed and turned in bed. Every time I turned to one side, my cheek hurt badly. It was like tiny needles were poking at it.

I could not help but start hurting myself by slapping my own face. In my mind, I angrily cursed and hoped the pain would stop. I kept thinking about Scarlett and could not fall asleep until late at night.

So, I got up. In the dim moonlight, I quickly found the key in the corner of the bathroom and unlocked the drawer in my dad’s wardrobe.

In that drawer were all of my dad’s important things: his divorce papers, our health insurance cards, our IDs, and my elementary school diploma.

Most importantly, it held the 20,000 dollars my grandfather left me for college.

I quietly put the money into Scarlett’s coat pocket.

I did not think anyone would see through such a clumsy, childish act of revenge. After all, sneaky actions like this were exactly what you would expect from a scheming woman who enjoyed being a mistress.

She was sound asleep. She lay in the same bed where my dad and mom once slept and was completely at ease.

Three days later, I told my dad, “When school starts, students need health insurance. If they don’t get it through the school, they need to show proof.”

My dad looked at me. He got up, went to the bathroom in his slippers, and then started searching through the wardrobe.

Scarlett was sitting on the couch. She had my dad watch her favorite soap opera with her. When she saw him go to find my health insurance card, she smiled at me.

She stopped peeling the orange, handed it to me, and said, “If the school doesn’t accept the proof, you can just get it done there. I’ll pay for it.”