Call Me a Jinx, Cry When I'm Gone

After undergoing a gallbladder removal surgery, I get discharged while having to hunch over in pain. In fact, I have to go home while attached to a surgical drainage bag.

Before I even reach the front door, I hear Rayne Randall, my sister who's ten years younger than me, wailing at the top of her lungs.

"Dad, there's a splinter in my finger! It hurts so much!"

"Let me blow your booboo away for you, Ray. It won't hurt anymore once I'm done."

As soon as I open the front door, I see my dad rolling his eyes at me. His previously happy disposition quickly morphs into an annoyed one.

"Why are you home this late? It's just a small surgery, isn't it? Look at how much of a wuss you're being! Ray wants to have fish for dinner, so you'd better take your ass to the market and buy a fresh one for her!"

My surgical wound hurts so much that I keep trembling in pain. I can barely move an inch.

Having noticed that I'm not moving at all, he chucks a slipper at me right away.

"Just go! What's with that gloomy look of yours? It's all thanks to you that our luck is gone! Every time I see a jinx like you walking around, I feel even unluckier!"

As far as I remember, my dad keeps calling me a jinx who has ruined his family.

Now that I've had a close brush with death, I don't want to keep living in this world like a pathetic loser.

In that case, I might as well let everyone in this family have a real dose of my misfortune.

Finn's First-Person POV

Strictly speaking, I was the second child in the family. I had an older brother who was lost in a miscarriage at just over five months.

A year after losing him, Derek Randall and Alessia Johnson adopted me from an orphanage.

Their biological child was gone, and they were told they might never be able to have children again. Dad went crazy with rage.

In his mind, I was the reason his son was gone.

Although Mom didn't go so far as to call me a jinx out loud, she never gave me a kind look. She was on the same page as Dad, and whenever she saw me, she either shook her head or sighed.

From the time I was young, I imagined that when I died, my parents would hold me and cry their hearts out, regretting that they hadn't treated me better. I didn't want much love. Just a little bit would have been enough.

But after being their son for 18 years, I realized I was deluding myself.

At five years old, I took on all the household chores—laundry, cooking, everything. If I didn't do the chores well, I was forced to kneel as punishment.

In winter, I knelt in the snow. In summer, I knelt in a small storage room without windows.

Dad cursed me to die every day, but I just wouldn't die. When I was eight, my little sister, Rayne Randall, was born, and I became her nanny and punching bag.

Taking care of her meals was one thing, but I also bore her punches and kicks as she vented her emotions. When I winced in pain, even if I just furrowed my brow, Dad would slap me across the face.

"Stop pretending. If you couldn't take good care of our little treasure, you jinx, we would have stopped raising you a long time ago."

I didn't dare talk back. One extra word would earn me a beating from both of them. My skin was rarely its normal color. Before the bruises faded, new injuries appeared.

At 14 years old, I got into a top high school, but I dropped out. My family wouldn't let me continue. Dad made me go out to work and earn more money to pay for Rayne's private elementary school fees.

I worked three jobs and was severely sleep-deprived. If I dozed off at home, Dad would beat me awake and scold me for being lazy and not doing anything.

He held all my payroll cards. When I got my salary, I didn't see a single cent of it.

My stomach had hurt for several months. I was sick but had no money to see a doctor, and he called me melodramatic.

"You're young and already whining about every little ache and pain. You're spoiled. Work harder and you'll be fine."

When I vomited blood at home, he told me to go somewhere far away to vomit and said I was greedy for stealing food and deserved to suffer.

Afterward, I fainted from stomach pain at the company. My gallbladder was full of stones, and I had multiple severe abdominal infections. Without surgery, I would die.

All the money I earned was in Dad's hands. I had no money for medical expenses.

The hospital called to tell him I was in critical condition, but it took him five hours to come to the hospital. He wouldn't pay a single cent and stood there with his hands on his hips, looking completely self-righteous.

"That jinx fainted at the company, so this counts as a work injury. Our family has no money."

The company manager saw me writhing in pain on the hospital bed. Afraid I would die, he softened and helped cover the hospital fees. Dad left, leaving me barely alive. No one from the family came to see me.

All I wanted was a little bit of love. How naive I was.

After nearly dying, I realized I should have cut ties with them years ago. But if I left home just as pathetically as I'd lived there, I would be unworthy of the "jinx" nickname I'd been called for years.