I killed a man.
He was my so-called father.
Blood splattered across my mother's face.
For a moment, she seemed stunned, but then her eyes hardened with resolve.
She ran down the hill, shouting, "Help! Ryman, he fell while drunk and died!"
When no one else was around, my mother would often hold me close, whispering in my ear.
She would talk about the happy life she once had, about my biological father whom I’d never met, and about the vast, beautiful world outside.
She would tell me that one day, we would escape—escape back to our real home.
And then, we would make sure everyone in this village paid the price.
They would spend the rest of their lives behind bars.
She would do whatever it took.
As a child, I didn’t fully understand, but I knew my mother was the most important person in my life, and I needed to protect her.
"Mom, let’s run away!"
I whispered firmly in her ear.
She gently stroked the top of my head, "There will be a chance, one day."
She tried to escape with me multiple times, but the last one ended in failure.
To keep our secret safe, I killed that man.
He fell to the ground with his eyes rolled back.
Blood poured from the back of his head, and soon, he was silent.
My mother froze for a moment.
Then, she quickly snapped into action, tossing the stone from my hand into the nearby river.
She began to run down the hill, crying out, "Help! Ryman Holt, he fell while drunk and died!"
As my mother's cries echoed, villagers hurried toward us.
An elderly woman with graying hair collapsed onto Ryman’s body, wailing in agony.
"My son... how could you die like this?"
Suddenly, she looked up, and her venomous gaze shot straight at me and my mother.
Martha's shrill voice cut through the air, "Tell me! Did you kill my precious son?"
My mother shielded me with her body, her bruised face swollen, her eyes red from tears.
She sobbed, "It was Ryman himself, he fell drunk... it has nothing to do with us."
I wailed, "Dad! Dad, wake up..."
Some onlookers chimed in, "Isn’t it that little girl who brought disaster upon Ryman?"
Others quickly agreed, "Yes, yes! It must be her. She should’ve been killed when she was born, or Ryman wouldn’t have fallen and died!"
I wiped away my tears, glaring at the two busybodies, and cursed them out.
"You two old hags! Did your tongues grow in the wrong place? Always running your mouths! Keep talking and see if I don’t slap the both of you!"
They flinched, avoiding my gaze, their muttered words growing softer.
"What a little savage," one of them muttered.
Martha, as though reminded, lunged toward me, her face twisted in fury, "You damn little bastard..."
But she was stopped by her eldest son, Cyrus Holt.
Cyrus grabbed Martha’s arm and whispered something in her ear.
Martha's expression softened, and she shot me one last glare.
But she didn’t come any closer.
Cyrus’ eyes greedily flickered between me and my mother.
A chill ran down my spine, and I tightened my grip on my mother's hand.
While she cried, she subtly shielded me with her entire body.
