When I was bullied to death, my entire family celebrated as if it were a national holiday.
They were ecstatic because I once slashed the tendons of their treasured princess, Kora Allen, wrecking her dream of becoming an artist. My parents said, "In life, you've sinned greatly. In death, you must make amends." My body found no rest and was instead donated to the hospital. Later, as I was dissected and reduced to fragments, they spiraled into madness. By their own hands, they had driven their beloved princess into the depths of despair.
"Dearest daughter, forgive us. It is we who must seek redemption..."
I am labeled a bully. Or at least, that’s the tag my parents’ cherished daughter, Kora, my brother’s most adored sister, slapped on me when I was eighteen. That year, I was brought back from my foster parents’ house in the small village to the lavish estate. According to them, I exuded an intolerable aura of pettiness and insolence. Conveniently enough, the girl who had been mistakenly swapped with me at birth, Kora Allen, had been nurtured into a flawless example of grace. They wanted me to emulate her. To follow her every move.
I was coerced into being Kora's little sidekick, and she never missed an opportunity to use the pretext of "learning" to boss me around. Running errands, doing her homework, even playing Cupid by delivering her love letters to her cherished upperclassman. Then standing by as I was publicly humiliated and rejected. When I confided all this to my parents, not a single family member showed even a hint of sympathy for me.
Because one day, Kora came home with an injured hand. When they asked her about it, she looked at me with scared but calculated eyes. From that moment on, I was marked as the one who ruined her life.
