Escape From the Demon Family and Find Your True Self

How much does our upbringing really shape who we become?

Here I am, on the 38th floor—a single step away from nothingness.

To escape it all.

I was raised in an old-school family, the firstborn. I was told there was supposed to be a younger brother too. But complications at birth meant only one of us made it—it was me.

I survived, yet my mother never really looked my way.

That brother I never got to meet? Mom talked about him for years, as if he was an angel who was lost too soon.

Even my dad, who'd rather be playing poker, used to jab his finger at me and accuse, "You killed your brother and nearly took your mother too!"

Growing up, I couldn't figure out what I did to be so disliked. I learned to walk on eggshells, to gauge the mood, to blend into the background—all lessons from the home front.

I swore to myself early on—I'd leave this house, this city, and never look back.

So, at 18, when college apps were due, I took my shot at a university far, far away.

On the moving day, I lugged my bags, solo, to campus.

Standing amid the new faces, I saw others getting help from their parents with luggage, receiving worried instructions, and sharing tearful goodbyes.

I couldn't connect with that; never had it, never missed it.

All I felt was relief—I was finally out, anonymous, starting over somewhere new.

Week one and I was already hustling at a local café near campus, figuring I couldn't bank on my parents for cash.

I hit the books hard during the week and worked weekends.

After a year of flying solo, I split my savings. Half stayed with me, and half went back home.

I rang up my dad, "Dad, I'm staying put for the holidays. Take care of yourselves."

"Sure, stay away. Your mom would only get upset seeing you anyway," he shot back.

After hanging up, I chuckled bitterly. Right, I was the family curse, wasn't I? Might as well stay away.

New Year's Eve, while the world celebrated, I felt like the only soul left out in the cold.

I hate all the hype during festivals, and being alone is all I need.

Alone on the streets, watching the fireworks, I dared to make a wish for the very first time—wishing for the things I'd always longed for.

In my junior year, mid-lecture, the advisor pulled me aside.

"Kelly, you need to take this call. It's urgent... about your mom... She's gone. Heart attack."

I hurriedly purchased a ticket for the earliest overnight train and found myself standing for a grueling 14 hours.

The details of enduring that lengthy ride blur together—the narrow aisle cramped with passengers, the air thick with the scent of various foods, the low murmur of others sleeping soundly, all while I stared out at the pitch-black sky, silently urging the train to speed up even more.

When we finally arrived, my legs were so numb that I bolted home without a moment's hesitation.

By the time I reached, I was too late—the hospital had already handled everything.

"Had to go off to study, huh? Missed seeing your mom one last time," Dad said, his voice thick with grief.

The following day, I helped Dad host the wake. I watched as people gorged themselves, clinking glasses, all smiles.

Some were Mom's kin, others her old buddies.

Eventually, Dad nudged me to mingle. "Come on, help me out here."

"I'm not playing host to these folks. They're your guests," I retorted.

"When will you ever grow up?" he sighed.

Why should I entertain these people? They were here for the spread, not to mourn.

It was a bitter irony. What's the point of it all, really?

I shed no tears at the funeral. Was I just cold-hearted? Perhaps.

A fortnight later, back at school, my days fell back into the old, aimless routine.

Classes, jobs—just going through the motions.