After I Died, They All Felt Sorry For Me

My mock exam results came back, and I scored among the top.

For most families, that would be a reason to celebrate. But not mine. My mother, Ashley Miller, locked me in the basement.

"With scores like these, why are you doing in school? Skip meals for now. Just stay down there," she said coldly.

Dad, Vincent Miller, who was working out of town, rushed back overnight. As soon as he entered the basement, he lashed out with his belt, beating me mercilessly.

"I'm working myself to the bone out there, and this is what you give me? I'd be better off keeping a dog than paying for your upkeep. I swear, I'll beat you to death!"

Later, on the night of the graduation party, the house was filled with laughter and joy.

I died at just 18 years old.

——

Vincent swung the belt down on me again and again, his face red with rage.

It felt like he wasn't hitting his own daughter but was instead pounding away at a punching bag, venting his frustrations.

I lost track of time, barely aware of the slow fade of consciousness.

"Enough! Stop hitting her, or she won't be able to take it," Ashley's voice cut through the haze as she stepped into the room and pulled Vincent away.

In the dim, oppressive room, Vincent's heavy breathing was the only sound.

"Don't think I'm done here. If you don't shape up, next time you get results like this, I'll make sure you regret it even more. Maybe then you'll take your studies seriously."

"Alright, you've driven all night, and you're tired. You've got to leave early tomorrow. Go get some rest," Ashley said, her voice cold but pragmatic.

Vincent wiped the blood-stained belt roughly, spat on the floor, and left.

A sigh of relief escaped me, but soon, the searing pain began to spread through my body. Ashley wiped my face gently and spoke in a soothing tone.

"Kate, your dad and I are doing this for your own good. You need to understand that.

"It's not easy for us either, seeing you fall behind. Spend a couple of days down here to think things over and reflect."

I tasted blood in my mouth, my voice a raspy whisper. "So I don't have to go to school tomorrow?"

"I've told them you're sick and won't be coming in. Don't worry about what the teachers will say," she replied.

I bitterly smiled to myself. It wasn't about me worrying; it was about keeping their perfect public image intact and hiding their brutal methods.

I couldn't fight back, couldn't speak up, for fear of even worse punishment.

Ashley looked down at me one last time before walking out.

As the door locked behind her, the small light in the room flickered off.

This was their way of handling me—isolated, hidden, so no one could hear my cries.

They crafted a facade for the outside world, but inside, their "parenting" meant I had to endure this punishment to prove my worth.

The tiny room was like an ancient dungeon—dark, damp, and suffocating. But I wasn't a criminal; I was their child.

The tears I had tried to hold back now flowed freely, splashing onto the cold floor. I lost track of how many times they had locked me in this place. I used to resist, but that only led to harsher beatings.

Every time Vincent had finished, Ashley would come in to "console" me, claiming it was all out of love.

It turned out their "love" meant controlling me, beating me, all for my own good.

Exhausted, I drifted off to sleep amidst the pain.