On my sixth birthday, my mother, Veronica Hamilton, was suddenly diagnosed with bipolar disorder.

There was no warning, no explanation—only a solitary advice Mom's best friend had sent to my father, Andrew Hamilton—"Don't let anyone hurt her."

That single text message altered the course of everything.

The last thing I ever expected was that it would cost me my life.

***

My scalp split open as Mom's twisted face kept looming in front of me.

"You worthless brat! How dare you wear a skirt behind my back! I'll beat you to death!"

Every time she had an episode, she would call me either a wretch or a worthless brat.

But I was her biological daughter.

She hated me as if I were her enemy.

Strands of broken hair, streaked with bits of flesh, drifted downward with each vicious movement she made.

"Why are you wearing a dress to provoke Mom?" my brother, Edward Hamilton, shouted, his voice piercing.

Before I could respond, someone struck me.

Piercing pain exploded at the back of my head. Blood trickled down my neck.

My body swayed, then collapsed to the ground.

Then came the heavy clang of a metal ornament crashing to the floor.

I saw Dad's terrified face as he threw his coat aside and lunged at Mom, screaming, "Vero! Are you okay?"

He ignored me completely as I lay crumpled on the ground with my head bleeding.

All his attention was on Mom's reddened, glistening eyes.

Mom pointed at me, putting on a pitiful expression. "I didn't mean to... I just got too angry. I lost control."

She covered her face and whimpered.

Dad pulled her into his arms, comforting her softly as he kicked me several times without even looking.

"It's okay. It's not your fault! It must be Isabella's fault. Don't cry."

His soothing words fell on my ears; his kicks rained down on me.

I couldn't feel a thing anymore. My body seemed to be numb.

But my vision kept fading in and out.

I clawed at the wall, my fingernails digging into the cracks as I tried to pull myself up.

But my nails split, and I collapsed back down again.

"Dad... Eddy..."

In intense pain, I forced a broken cry up from my throat.

Unsurprisingly, they didn't hear me.

Edward even stepped right over my hand, then spoke to Mom in a soft, caring whisper.

That soothing tone cut through me like a blade.

Before I turned six, things had been different.

When Dad came home from work, I was the first person he held. He would tell me stories and get up at night to cover me with blankets.

Edward always ensured I got the first taste of his precious candy.

They treated me like a treasure—giving up spicy food to eat sweet food instead, all because I couldn't handle the slightest bit of heat.

And because I loved dresses, they bought me every kind of floral dress in every color.

But Mom's expression grew sour day by day.

Her gaze, once warm, turned cold.

She secretly burned my dresses, my new shoes, even my dolls, and cut my hair into uneven chunks.

I cried to Dad and Edward.

However, the doctor informed us that Mom was ill.

She had depression and couldn't be upset.

Dad stroked my hair and sighed. "Be good, Bella. Your mother is sick. We have to be careful with her."

I bit my lip and nodded silently.

From that moment on, Mom became the center of the family's attention.

My vision blurred with blood, black spots swarmed before my eyes, and my chest seized up, stealing my breath.

"Dad... please... look at me..."

Dad finally heard my desperate cries for help, yet he still didn't come over. He just glanced at me like I was a nuisance and snapped, "Your mother is having an episode. Stop playing dead on the floor and get up!"

Hearing him speak to me made Mom cry even harder. "It's my fault! I'll kneel! I'll apologize!"

And she did. She dropped to her knees and banged her head on the floor with a sharp, rhythmic thud.

Dad grew anxious, spun around, and barked at Edward, "Get your sister out of here! Don't let her upset your mother again!"

A bitter taste rose in my mouth.

So my whole existence was a mistake.

Edward yanked me up by the arm and dragged me toward the stairs, his voice trembling with rage.

"What's wrong with you? Can't you stop wearing dresses? Why do you keep upsetting Mom? If something happens to her, I'll never forgive you!"

He loathed me so much he couldn't even stand to glance my way.

He didn't see the long trail of blood I left behind me or how my white dress had turned red.

I parted my lips, wanting to tell him that if I didn't wear it one last time, I would never get another chance because I was about to die.

But his hand was at my throat, and no sound would come out.

The last time I went to the hospital for my test results, the doctor grabbed my arm and wouldn't let me leave, saying I had late-stage leukemia and needed to be admitted immediately.

I had just gotten home with the diagnosis when Dad frowned, jabbing a finger at my nose in accusation.

"Where have you been running off to? You should be home with your mother!"

I mumbled softly as I pulled the report from my pocket, but before I could hand it over, he snatched it from me, crumpled it, and tossed it straight into the trash.

"Don't ever bring things like report cards out again. Be careful not to upset your mother!"

It was always about upsetting her.

Wearing a dress upset her, as did a hair clip.

Even smiling, talking to them, growing her hair out, or making friends would upset her.

Maybe the only way not to upset her was if I really died.

My lips trembled, but looking at Dad's impatient face, I swallowed the words "leukemia" and "dying" back down.

Edward was strong. Before we even reached the hallway, he threw me onto the landing. My head cracked against the wall with a dull thud.

Blood flowed faster.

He didn't care. He only asked, "You're still alive, right? Stay upstairs until Mom calms down."

Then, I heard Dad on the phone downstairs. "Hey, Prissy, Vero's upset again. Come over quickly!"

After a few murmured replies, he hung up.

He even shouted up the stairs, "Isabella, bring your mother a coat!"

I lay sprawled on the floor, gasping for air, unable to answer anymore.

Then came the heavy thud of footsteps, and Dad came upstairs.

As he passed my feet, he paused, gave me a shove to the side, and muttered complaints under his breath, "What's the use of raising you? You're too lazy to even bring your mother a jacket. All you ever do is upset her!"

He stood in the light, glaring down at me.

He was so close, but it felt impossibly far.

I clawed forward with the last bit of strength I had, reaching for his pant leg.

Blood dripped from my face, splattering onto the floor.

Before my fingers could touch him, he shoved me away. "Get out of the way! You'd better figure out how you're going to apologize to your mother!"

Like a rag doll, I crumpled back into the corner's shadow.

The word "apologize" echoed in my ears.

When I was 15, my class held a holiday performance. My teacher said I was pretty and gave me light makeup. The show ran late, and I didn't have time to wipe it off before going home.

The second I stepped through the door, Mom threw a bucket of ice water over me.

In the dead of winter, snow was falling outside, and inside my heart had frozen over, too.

She screamed for the housekeeper to hold me down, then grabbed a broom and scrubbed my face with it, snarling, "Filthy slut! I'll teach you what happens when you try to act cheap and seduce people!"

The more I tried to defend myself, the harder she scrubbed at me. In the end, she swung the broom straight down on me, striking without restraint.

She beat me until my face was covered in bloody welts, my skin split open and raw.

I collapsed on the floor, curled into a ball, sobbing as I begged, "Mom, please! Stop hitting me! I won't do it again!"

But the moment she saw Edward, her tears welled up instead, and she cried pitifully, "If Isabella hadn't put on makeup, I wouldn't have had an episode... It's all my fault!"

And just like countless times before, I became the scapegoat—the one who had "triggered" her.

In Edward's eyes, being cursed at and beaten was nothing more than what I deserved.

That night, Dad left a bottle of medicine on my nightstand. His voice was cold as he said, "Enough crying. Come out and apologize to your mother. She beat you so hard her palms are blistered..."

From that moment on, I finally understood.

The Hamilton family was a safe harbor for Mom, but for me, it was nothing more than a cage.

The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs pulled me out of my haze. My throat tasted like rusted iron from all the blood.

Watching Dad's resolute back fade away, my lips trembled.

"Dad..."

However, the word never got out. My eyes drifted shut.

When I came to again, Priscilla Mosley was already in the living room with a medical team.

I had first met her last year, around the holidays.

She came by with a bag of fruit for Mom, and I had been shoved out of the room.

Worried that Mom might be upset, I hid quietly beneath the windowsill.

"I've brought you the medicine. Take it the same way as before."

Mom's voice wavered. "Will it... have side effects on my body?"

"Only real medicine has side effects. This one doesn't. Don't worry. Andy will never find out..."

Just then, firecrackers went off outside, and I missed the rest.

But that question stayed buried in me.

What exactly was Mom taking?

Was she even really sick?

Suddenly, Mom broke down in tears. She collapsed into Dad's arms, curling up and trembling all over.

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean it! If she hadn't worn a dress behind my back, I wouldn't have hit her... I'm a sinner! I'm sorry!"

She slapped herself hard across the face as she sobbed.

Panicked, Dad pressed his forehead to hers, murmuring, "Isabella's the bad one! She deserved it!"

Priscilla chimed in, "That's right! Bad children need to be punished!"

She turned her head, and as her gaze swept across the floor, her body tensed ever so slightly.

"Why is there... blood on the floor?"

Everyone turned toward the corner.

There was indeed a dark patch of nearly dried blood, its edges marked with drag lines that trailed around the corner and all the way to the stairs.

Dad's brows knitted tightly, but just as he was about to speak, Edward cut in.

"That's not blood. Mom's cat knocked over ketchup. It just looks like blood."

The tense air from moments ago instantly dissolved with that single remark.

Dad's tightly knitted brows slowly relaxed.

Just then, a low buzzing came from around the corner.

Edward went over, picked up my phone, and answered.

"Hello? Is Isabella there? I'm her homeroom teacher, Carolina Atkinson," came a voice through the speaker.

Edward scowled and shouted upstairs, "Stop pretending to be dead! Your teacher's calling for you!"

He waited a few seconds, and when no one came downstairs, he let out a sharp, irritated scoff. "Still playing possum, huh?"

Dad grabbed the phone out of his hand and spoke into it coldly. "What is it?"

"Today is Isabella's birthday. The whole class threw her a party..."

"A birthday party? No wonder she was acting out in that dress today! She made my wife so upset that she fell ill, and now she's nowhere to be found! From now on, don't bother preparing any of that nonsense for her again!"

He slammed the phone down with practiced ease.

Because of him, my classmates, my friends, and even the neighbors had all been driven away with scoldings like that.

Mom hated me, and she hated them, too.

Whenever someone came looking for me, she would chase them out with a broom, waving it wildly until they fled.

Then, the moment Edward and Dad returned, she would rush to them, complaining that I had been bringing shady people home just to provoke her.

She would even show them the red marks she pinched onto her own skin as proof.

And so, their eyes toward me grew colder. My friends drifted away one by one until I was left entirely alone.

Only then would the ordeal stop.

I grew up inside that cage, day by day, like a lifeless fish washed ashore.

In truth, dying didn't seem so bad. At least then I wouldn't have to tiptoe through life anymore.

Just then, someone suddenly pointed toward the staircase with a startled cry. "Look! What's that?"

A thin stream of dark red was seeping down the steps, winding like a snake.

Under the harsh, pale light above, it looked disturbingly sinister.

Then, from the corner, the phone that had been thrown aside rang again.

Dad strode over, snatched it up, and barked impatiently into the receiver, "Didn't I tell you to stop calling—"

Halfway through, his words got caught in his throat.

His voice faltered, tinged with disbelief, almost sounding ridiculous. "What are you talking about? My daughter has leukemia? That's impossible!"

"Who the hell are you? Some kind of scammer?"

"Mr. Hamilton, I'm not lying! Today was her follow‑up appointment at the hospital. We waited all morning, but she never showed up..."

"Enough! How much did she pay you to help her pull this stunt?"

He scoffed, shaking his head, and barked at Edward without even looking up.

"Go get my belt."

Edward froze, confused. "Why?"

"Why? Your sister teamed up with an outsider to call me, claiming she's in late‑stage leukemia. She's faking it to get attention!"

Maybe it was just my imagination, but at those words, Mom's face drained of color.

Even Priscilla swayed a little where she stood.

"Today I'm done with her. I'm going to beat this ungrateful brat within an inch of her life!"

Dad clenched his jaw, rolling up his sleeves, his face red with rage.

I wanted to tell him.

He didn't have to. I was already dead. But no matter how many times I tried to say it, they couldn't hear me.

Then, from the second floor, came the sound of stumbling footsteps.

The intern doctor Priscilla had brought along stumbled to his knees at the foot of the stairs, his face stricken with fear.

He pointed a trembling finger toward the shadowy hallway. His voice quivered. "Dr. Mosley... there's a body."

Edward let out a sharp laugh. "Stop talking nonsense! That's my sister throwing a tantrum, lying there pretending to be dead!"

I was dead. I shouldn't have felt anything.

But hearing that still made something ache inside me.

Even now, not one of them had thought to go upstairs.

Not one of them had asked if I was okay.

They had already decided I was faking it, lying, playing dead...

"Don't talk nonsense!" Priscilla snapped.

The intern protested, "I'm not! Come up and see for yourselves!"

A flicker of doubt crossed Dad's eyes.

He finally handed Mom over to Edward and went up the stairs himself.

His voice was low, angry, as he climbed. "Isabella! You've gone too far! Even if it's your birthday, you can't be this selfish..."

But the words died in his throat when he saw the clear trail of blood across the hallway floor.

It was like someone had gripped his neck, choking the sound out of him.

He turned sharply and flipped on the hall light.

In the glow, there I was—silent, covered in blood, lying in a pool of it at the corner.