Everyone Wanted Me Dead After Watching One Video Novel – Chapter 1 My mother gave me two sisters and a lifetime of bruises. While my siblings got hugs, I got the back of her hand. So on my eighteenth birthday, I packed my bags and never looked back. Years later, I finally worked up the nerve to return. I brought my boyfriend with me for moral support, all I wanted was to look my mother in the eye and ask her one damn question: why? But before I could say a word, she pulled out her phone and played a video for him. By the time it ended, he was standing on her side of the room, not mine. *** “Still breathing, huh?” she spat, her voice sharp with disgust. “Too damn tough to die.” My eyes opened to hers, cold, unblinking, fixed on me like I was something she’d scraped off her shoe. I’d lost count of how many times I’d woken up like this. In a hospital bed. Because of her.
And the reason this time? I’d spilled a little oatmeal. Just a splash. Sounded crazy, but that was it. That was all it ever took. I stared straight into her eyes, searching for even a flicker of remorse. But all I found was disgust and distance. Even a tinge of regret that she hadn’t succeeded in killing me. My mother didn’t just dislike me, she’d hated my guts since I was a kid. For as long as I could remember, it was all slaps and screams my way, while my two older sisters could do no wrong. She’d simmer homemade soup for them “to keep their strength up,” but when I was curled over from cramps, sweating through my sheets, she’d just look down and mutter, “Serves you right.” They wore dresses like they were going to brunch every day. I got the same worn-out jeans, washed so thin you could almost see through them. And when they’d push me around or roll their eyes, my mother never stopped them, she just watched, like I deserved it.
I once wondered if she hated me because I wasn’t her biological daughter. I secretly took a strand of her hair for a DNA test. The results confirmed I was indeed her flesh and blood. I was baffled. I listed every possible reason, even wondering if my father had a mistress who looked like me, making my mother resent me. I followed Dad a few times, but he wasn’t cheating. I couldn’t find any reason for her violence. So, I endured her unexplained beatings, growing up under her fists. During one of those beatings, I reached out to my grandparents. At first, Grandma was heartbroken for me and scolded Mom. “What kind of monster are you? Beating your own child half to death!” Mom didn’t reply. She just took out her phone and showed Grandma a video. After watching it, Grandma’s face turned to stone. She stopped pleading and instead hissed, “Beat her! She deserves to die!” Grandpa came to intervene too, but after seeing the video, his attitude did a complete one-eighty. He begged Mom to finish me off.
Over the years, no matter who I turned to, after they saw that video, they all ended up begging my mother to kill me. Even my own sisters remained unmoved witnesses when Mom hit me. Their eyes held the same cold indifference as hers, as if they were all waiting for me to die. I racked my brain but couldn’t figure out why. The only silver lining was my father. He always protected me. But he traveled often for work, so I still suffered my mother’s beatings. Somehow, I endured all those years. Thinking of the past, lying there covered in wounds, my heart felt like it was encased in ice. My mother stood before me, utterly detached. Looking at her, I couldn’t help but ask again, “Mom, why do you hate me so much? Just tell me what I did wrong, and I’ll fix it.” I genuinely wanted to know. When my eyes met hers, wet and pleading, she let out a short, scornful laugh. “I hit you because I want to. That’s all.” Her tone was almost casual, empty of everything but a faint, icy regret. “Shame I didn’t finish the job.” The light in my eyes died. This time, she had truly meant to end me.
Luckily, I’d managed to call my boyfriend, Ethan Miller, who saved me from her clutches. Speak of the devil. Just then, Ethan walked into the hospital room, followed by several police officers. The lead officer approached my mother and snapped handcuffs on her wrists. “Mrs. Harrison, you’re under arrest for domestic assault. You need to come with us.”