Chapter 31

On my 11th birthday, my father died.

It wasn’t a big deal.

Just a dry, meaningless death that left me feeling a bit empty.

It was an end no different from any other vagabond, remembered and mourned by no one.

It was suicide.

***

On a summer night when I was 14, under a crescent moon, my younger sister died.

It wasn’t a big deal.

Just a death I thought wouldn’t happen twice, so it was a bit surprising.

It was an end no different from any small animal, remembered and mourned only by me.

It was suicide.

***

On a particularly cold winter day when I was 16, while checking the heating in the mansion, my mother died.

It wasn’t a big deal.

Just a death so predictable it didn’t even stir any emotion, leaving me disgusted with myself.

It was a selfish end she chose, pretending to atone for something I never asked for.

It was suicide.

***

I never cursed my own circumstances.

I just objectively knew I wasn’t exactly lucky.

A father who faked his way into a title.

A mother forced into marriage by money.

A family bound only by interests, devoid of affection, always cold and filled with constant shouting and violence.

Of course, it wasn’t always directed at each other.

They were tied together in a boat they couldn’t escape until one of them died.

And conveniently, there were two perfect scapegoats beneath them who knew the situation and didn’t need to be tiptoed around.

Still, it seemed they loved each other.

After nights of being hit and cursed, the next day always brought tears, hugs, and warm family bonding.

The carrot always followed the whip.

I don’t think they were smart enough to consciously train us.

Still, my younger sister seemed to give them her heart.

I didn’t.

I don’t think I loved them.

But I don’t think I hated them either.

***

The reckless deeds of their youth brought them a baron’s title, authority unimaginable to commoners, and wealth.

But my father lived his whole life haunted by fear greater than what he gained.

Because if it ever came out, it was over.

No matter how thoroughly he hid it, the pressure must have been unbearable.

Whenever I saw my father, I felt pity more than hatred.

Even though he was a man I hated to see, always swinging his fists one day and bawling apologies the next, I could understand the torment he carried inside.

Though I did wonder, if he was going to apologize, why not just not have kids in the first place?

Still, the time when my father was alive was the least painful.

For my sister, at least.

My sister was young, too young.

It was better for me to take all the hits than to hurt this little girl who had nowhere to hide.

I was already a rotten child-adult who expected nothing and felt no affection from them.

If she, who still loved our father, had been hit like me, it was clear she’d suffer deep inside.

And she did, a few times.

So wasn’t it more reasonable for me, who could brush off the physical wounds, to take it all?

My father seemed to think so too.

Whether instinctive or deliberate, in most situations, he hit me.

That was enough for me.

***

Lack bred dependence.

Of course, it wasn’t healthy.

Alcohol, drugs, women.

A painfully typical pattern.

And then, the gradual loss of rationality was just as typical.

After hundreds of tearful promises to never do it again, he’d always become the same monster the next day.

***

On the eve of my 11th birthday, it was just another night like any other.

Only slightly worse than usual.

My father used his fists, his elbows, his feet, his shins, and finally picked up a shard of a broken glass.

Through my bloodied vision, I saw him walking toward my sister.

The glass shard in his hand sparkled like a gem, filthy and sharp, catching my eye.

Without thinking, I ran and pushed him with my whole body.

Of course, an 11-year-old kid couldn’t even budge a grown man, but at least I managed to turn his attention to me.

The rest is a blur.

It just hurt, hurt, hurt, hurt so much.

When I opened my eyes, I saw my sister holding me, screaming and crying.

I saw my father dropping the glass shard, stumbling back.

I smiled faintly, thinking it was okay, and then saw him running toward me, eyes wide like they’d pop out.

I saw him screaming for my mother, the mage, pressing hard on my chest until it hurt.

And then, I just fell asleep like that.

***

The next day.

I thought, at least today, I could have a warm birthday.

With a child’s hope, I dragged my aching body to my father’s room and opened the door.

What greeted me was my father, hanging from a noose, limp.

A blackened body draped over the rope.

His tongue hanging out, his unfocused gaze fixed on the void.

A yellowish liquid and filth drip from between the legs, so disgusting you can’t even bear to look.

Dried traces of bodily fluids are stuck around every possible hole.

I thought when someone dies, you’d cry or scream or something.

But little me just stood there quietly, then picked up the neatly placed suicide note on the table and read it.

“I loved you.”

“It wasn’t out of hate.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m the one who should’ve died.”

“I regret giving birth to you.”

“I regret becoming a noble.”

“Happy birthday.”

Ha.

After reading the note, I tore it to shreds and scattered it under Father’s corpse.

If I didn’t do that, I felt like I wouldn’t be able to endure it.

Then, I quietly leaned against him and sat down.

I stayed like that until Mother, who found it strange how quiet it was, came in and screamed.

Could there be a worse birthday gift than this?

I received something unbearably heavy that I never asked for.

The life of my own father.

A truly horrifying thing.

***

The Empire wasn’t exactly thriving, so it didn’t pay much attention to a baron in the outskirts.

That’s why Father could afford the luxury of choosing death after doing such a crazy thing.

But if someone from the capital were sent to investigate his death, everything would’ve been exposed.

Father was irresponsible to the end.

By choosing death, he tried to take away even our right to live.

Though he probably never imagined this outcome.

He was just a terrible human who ran away under the guise of atonement, without any malice.

Otherwise, he couldn’t have written such a note.

That disgusting collection of letters that managed to disappoint me, who thought I wouldn’t be disappointed if I didn’t expect anything.

Anyway, the reason I survived even after Father’s death was because Mother was a fairly skilled mage.

She concealed his death, handled his duties, and even sent a puppet to social events he couldn’t miss.

Honestly, it wasn’t much different from before.

He was only good at deceiving people, so he had already left most things to her.

Still, the burden of anxiety Father left behind steadily gnawed at Mother.

***

Younger Sister.

My sweet, lovely Younger Sister seemed quite shocked by Father’s death.

She stopped eating and drinking, locked herself in her room for days, crying so much that I was the one worrying about what to do.

Mother didn’t have the energy to comfort her.

Mother became Father.

Though she had cursed before, it was the first time she resorted to violence, claiming the crying was annoying.

Sadly.

Younger Sister stopped crying.

It seemed Mother liked that.

Enough to repeat the same situation over and over.

***

Unlike Father, Mother’s violence strangely targeted only Younger Sister.

I don’t know why.

Maybe she thought I was too big to mess with now.

Or maybe she had noticed my magical talent by then.

I never asked for such favoritism.

I’d rather be hurt than see Younger Sister suffer.

Not because I’m selfless.

But because she was the only thing precious to me.

The only family I had.

I did try to appeal to Mother.

“Stop. Hit me instead.”

Of course, Mother didn’t listen.

All I could do was hold Younger Sister tightly.

I couldn’t kill Mother, after all.

Naturally, Younger Sister fell apart.

Her once bright eyes became just black orbs, and the only human-like expression in our family had turned into something like mine.

Yet, she still tried to appear cheerful, which was heartbreaking.

But there were too many things I couldn’t ignore.

Her wounds could be healed with magic, but every time I saw her, there were new ones.

Every night, stifled sobs came from her room.

When I found the straight line of scars running from her wrist to her arm, I thought maybe I should’ve killed Mother.

No, even if I had, Younger Sister would’ve suffered in her own way.

From the moment her gentle nature was born into this family, her fate was sealed.

In the worst possible way.