CHAPTER 7

Slap.

A stick slammed down with such incredible force that if it had hit something, it might have broken to its sheer strength.

Slap.

The stick dropped down again. What was the stick hitting? Was it an inanimate object? A misbehaving pet, perhaps?

Slap.

No. It was a child’s hand. The reddened palm of an 11-year-old. My hands. I remember that very day. Each slap sent a shockwave throughout my body, and each strike was harder than the last.

Slap.

I was on the brink of crying. But I held it in. If I were to cry now, then this constant, almost drum-like performance wouldn’t stop.

Slap.

Why was I getting slapped, you may wonder? I had an 89/100 on a test, which was something so undesirable in my father’s eyes that he punished me for it.

His exact words were, “I did not raise you like this. 90 is manageable but low, 95 is acceptable, and 100 is ideal, but going anywhere lower than 90 is an insult. You, my child, are failing me.”

My father was the one responsible for teaching me out of school. He would continue lecturing me after school until midnight.

“But father, I had the highest score in class. I—”

Slap.

“I did not permit you to speak.”

My eyes were on the verge of crying. But I didn’t, I couldn’t, I shouldn’t. Crying was a weakness in front of my father, and he didn’t let it slide and would punish me for even shedding a tear.

Slap.

Slap.

Slap.

The palms of my hand were now beginning to numb. My tears were nearly there, but I kept them in. I kept it in.

“I have more important things to do than teach a failed child. Hah. I do wonder where I have failed you. I have done everything to make you better, yet this is how you repay me. Disappointing.”

My father grew up in a privileged household. He was the heir to a well-established company. People regarded him as a genius, a messiah of some sorts. They praised, put him on a pedestal, and saw him as the person who saved a dying rotting company to become a powerhouse.

I was only in the shadows of my father, and there was no need for me to take over that same company. He was determined to mold me into his image. He wants me to be him. A copy of himself.

“If you fail now, what will they think of me? Can you imagine how much they rely on me? How can you do this to your father? The father that raised you, the father that fed you, the father that made you.”

He shook his head as if he were seeing the most disgusting object he had ever seen.

“Do not do this to me, my child.”

“I understand, father.”

“As you should.”

I hate him.

From the very bottom of my heart, I detest my father. I repeat these words to myself daily. My life had come to embody my hatred of him. When he died, I had no purpose. I only worked and ate for the sake of seeing the next day—a tiresome repetition.

But this time, I will live a life of my volition. He’s not here and can never be here. He doesn’t exist and can’t exist.

If living the life of a shitty noble is what I have to work with, then I will have to be more vicious in surviving this world. If I could survive in the hands of my father, then this would be just another playground.

It’s not like I have any other choice, do I?

. . .

●●●