The Monster They Made Me

If I hadn't gone, Mom wouldn't have forced me to take Anthony's place at the school across the river. Anthony was her golden boy, the one who listened to her every command. He was terrified of the water; he would never have gone near that riverbank on his own. But the moment I stepped out of the woodshed, the blow came. Thwack. Mom brought a thick stick down across my back, the pain exploding along my spine. "You wretched girl! I let you go to school, and this is how you repay me? Scheming against your own brother?" Her face twisted into a snarl. "You wanted him to feed the fish, didn't you? I ought to beat you to death right here!" I curled in on myself, shielding my head, but her words cut deeper than the wood. "You're just waiting for Anthony to die so you can hog the morning drumstick, aren't you?" she shrieked. "You heartless monster. You freak." But I knew the truth. Anthony's clothes were bone dry. He hadn't been near the river at all. Mom, Anthony is lying to you. I screamed it silently. He wants to steal you and Dad away from me completely. That night, I was banished to the woodshed. Grandma tried to intervene, her voice trembling as she pleaded for mercy. It only earned her the same sentence. "You old bat!" Mom spat, turning her rage on her. "Isn't it enough that you leech off this family? You want to side with that little wretch? Fine. Go freeze with her!" Dad stood by the door, silent as a statue. He didn't dare speak. He only watched. The woodshed was bitter cold. Grandma whispered in my ear, her breath forming faint clouds in the dark. "Cat, don't mind your mother's temper. She let you take the school spot, didn't she? Deep down, she still dotes on you." She rubbed my freezing arms. "She's just angry right now. Apologize tomorrow. She's your mother; she won't hold a grudge forever." Grandma kept chattering, trying to distract me from the cold, but her voice grew fainter and fainter until it was just a murmur. It was the warmest night I slept that entire winter. It was also the last. Morning brought a bone-deep chill that woke me with a start. My body felt heavy, as if something were pressing the air from my lungs. I turned my head. Grandma's face was inches from mine. Swollen. Purple. Still. Frost clung to her gray hair like cruel jewels. Grandma was dead. And with her went the last person who might shield me. From that day on, Dad never tried to stop Mom's beatings. He only looked relieved that the target wasn't him. Just as my parents blamed me for their misery, I directed every ounce of my hatred toward Anthony. I wish he were dead. Tonight, the cold bit into my skin. No one was there to warm me. I curled into a tight ball in the corner of the woodshed, silently praying for my brother's demise. I never imagined that when heaven finally answered a prayer, it would hurt this much. In the dead of night, a shadow moved in the corner. Through my daze, I saw a hand pick up a half-peeled apple. I thought it was a stray cat until a burst of sweetness exploded on my tongue. "Catherine, eat." Anthony's voice drifted into my ear, soft and terrified. I didn't speak. I chewed mechanically, accepting the apple he fed me bite by bite. Then the taste turned metallic. Copper mixed with sweet juice. I opened my eyes. In the pale moonlight, I saw the gash on his finger. He had sliced his own flesh while peeling the fruit in the dark. He was a boy who cried over a scraped knee, yet now, with blood dripping from his hand, he didn't make a sound. No tears. No fuss. He just kept feeding me. I opened my mouth to speak, but his small, sticky hand covered my lips. "Catherine, don't talk," he whispered, eyes wide. "If Mom hears, she'll hit you again." The moonlight caught the tears swimming in his eyes. They shone like stars. Why? Why did he always do this? Every time I took a beating for him, he would sneak in to comfort me. Every time Mom gave him a drumstick, he saved it until I came home from school. He followed me around like a shadow, looking at me with those big, innocent eyes that made everyone pity him. If he didn't do these things—if he were just a spoiled brat—I could hate him properly. I could use every vicious method I could think of to steal our parents back without a shred of guilt. Anthony stripped off his down jacket. He draped it over me, though it was too small to cover more than my chest. "Why?" I choked out. He pressed his hands down on the jacket, tucking me in to keep the warmth from escaping. "Remember when Mom took Dad to visit relatives?" he whispered. "You went to school and didn't take me. I was mad, so I tore a page out of your textbook." He sniffled. "Grandma saw and slapped me. It hurt so much, Catherine." He looked at me, his expression devastatingly earnest. "When Mom hits you, I feel just like that. My heart hurts. Catherine, I don't want you to be in pain."

Anthony used the purest, most innocent words to expose the rot in my soul. After Grandma left, he was the only one who offered me a shred of pity. Sobs tore through my throat, breaking the dam I'd built against the pain. I clung to my little brother, two small bodies huddled together in the dark, sharing what little warmth we had against the freezing night. The next morning, Anthony scrambled back to his room at first light. Not long after, Mom's frantic scream pierced the air. "Honey! Hurry! Take Tony to Dr. Zhang at the village entrance! He slept all night but his body's ice cold—did he catch a chill?" The sheer panic in her voice stirred something buried. I remembered that once, I had been this family's treasure too. I recalled a winter tantrum I threw over a dress I'd seen on TV. To appease me, Mom had crossed the frozen river in the dead of winter to buy it. On her way back, the ice gave way. She was nearly swept under by the current; if Dad hadn't been a strong swimmer, she would have drowned. The first thing Mom did when she woke up, coughing water from her lungs, was apologize to me. "Cathy, I'm sorry. Mom lost the new clothes. Be a good girl—once I'm better, I'll go buy them for you again." I didn't blame her. She must have just forgotten. That had to be why she never gave me those clothes, even now. Mom loved me. She definitely loved me. In the main bedroom, Anthony hugged Mom and planted a kiss on her cheek. "Mom, I rolled off the bed this morning. That's why I'm cold. I'm fine." He rubbed his stomach theatrically. "You must be hungry, right? It's cold out. Let's let Dad eat first too." Anthony was an angel—far kinder, far more thoughtful than I ever was. Later in my childhood, when I asked for clothes again, Mom didn't cross a river. She crossed my face with her palm. "You ungrateful little wretch! Hurting me once wasn't enough? You won't be happy until you see me dead, is that it?" She had just given birth to Anthony then. I only wanted to steal her attention back; I hadn't cared about her safety. I was detestable. No wonder Mom hated me. But I didn't truly wake up to that reality until Anthony died. After starving for a full day, the clinking of bowls and chopsticks in the courtyard drew me out like a moth to flame. When Mom saw me emerge, her expression hardened. She tossed an old, dented iron basin onto the dirt. Splashed cold water mixed with leftover rice into it. "Eat." Mrs. Harmon happened to be passing by the gate. She paused, her face twisting. "Mrs. Simmons... Cathy is your daughter, not a stray dog. How can you not even let her sit at the table?" Mom slammed her chopsticks down. "Don't you dare lecture me. She came out of me; I'll discipline her however I see fit!" She stood, voice rising. "Besides, who was it back then that called her a monster? Who told me not to bring her back to the village? Now you're pretending to be a saint?" Years ago, when Mom gave birth to me via IVF, the village gossip mill churned with rumors. They said the blood in my veins wasn't human, that I was a test-tube monster who would grow up to eat people. If Grandpa Whitney hadn't used his influence to back us up, Mom—who had fiercely protected me back then—would have been driven out of the village along with me. Mrs. Harmon opened her mouth to argue, but Mom cut her down with a single question. "When are you going to pay back the money you owe my husband for treating your eldest son's illness?" Mrs. Harmon snapped her mouth shut. She cast a fleeting, pitying glance at me before hurrying away. The mother who once shielded me from rot-throwing villagers was gone. She looked at me with eyes like ice. Stood up, grabbed the basin, and dumped the watery porridge into the chicken coop. "If you won't eat, fine. Raising a dog is better than raising you. At least a dog knows to bite my enemies." She sneered. "Raising you? You just wait for me to die." Her words carried a hidden barb. I knew exactly what she meant. It was a memory from years ago. Mom had taken me to Grandma's house for a visit. We were walking back, her hands full of bags stuffed with my favorite snacks. We were passing the cornfield when two men lunged out from the tall stalks. They ripped me from Mom's grip and spiked me into the hard earth. The impact knocked the wind out of me, and the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. Then they dragged Mom into the cornfield. She screamed, thrashing against them, yelling one thing over and over: "Run! Cathy, go find Dad!"

I swallowed the metallic tang of blood filling my mouth, forcing my legs to move until I found Dad three kilometers away. But when I finally reached him, panting and desperate, the look in his eyes stopped me cold. He wasn't relieved. He was chillingly detached. "Cathy," he said, his voice void of emotion. "How would you like a different mother?" I stared at him, confused. "Do you like Maya?" Why was he asking this now? Mom was in danger. I didn't have time for his riddles. Ignoring the dread pooling in my stomach, I grabbed his hand. "We have to go back. We have to find Mom." I turned to lead him, but a sudden, exploding pain shattered the back of my skull. The world went black. The first thing I heard was a guttural, heart-rending wail. Consciousness returned in a haze of agony. Mom was screaming, her voice raw with grief and rage. "You ungrateful little wretch! I told you to find help, and here you are sleeping!" A sharp sting slapped across my face. I tasted something sweet and crumbly near my lips—peach pastry. Where did that come from? Mom struck me again. It was the first time she had ever hit me, and she put every ounce of her terror behind the blow. "I let you be greedy! I let you eat! From the day you were born, have I ever mistreated you?" She shook me violently. "You really are a monster. No humanity in you at all! You sent your father running in the opposite direction while you gorged yourself here. I should beat you to death!" I lay there, too stunned to react. The pastry crumbs, the wrong direction, the blow to my head—it all clicked into place. Dad hadn't been lost. He had been plotting this. He knocked me out, planted the food on me, and framed me to cover his own tracks. I tried to explain, choking out words through my tears, but Mom was deaf to my pleas. Finally, Dad stepped in. He put on a show of reluctance, pulling the hysterical woman off me. "Isabel, that's enough. You'll kill her." Later, Dad used the incident as leverage to demand a divorce. He wanted to be rid of the "crazy woman" who beat her child. But Grandpa Whitney intervened. His authority was absolute; he crushed the divorce proceedings to protect the family reputation. Trapped in a loveless marriage, Mom turned her resentment toward me. I became the lightning rod for her fury. Dad would watch from a distance, his eyes holding a flicker of guilt, but he never lifted a finger to stop her. Clang. The iron basin hit the floor, spinning noisily. I watched Mom's chest heave with exertion. I understood then. Mom didn't love me anymore. Perhaps the love had died the moment she believed I abandoned her in that cornfield. I turned and walked toward the door. "Cathy!" My little brother, Tony, tried to run after me, but Mom grabbed his arm. "Stay away from her," she hissed. "Let her die wherever she wants. She's not your sister." I glanced back one last time. Tony's eyes were wide, filled with tears and confusion. "Big sister!" That was the last time I ever heard him call me that. I ran to the back mountain. The floodwaters had receded, leaving the trees draped in debris—shredded clothes, trash, the skeletal remains of a life washed away. I wouldn't go back to that house. Not ever. I found a small rabbit burrow tucked against a slope. It was too small, so I used a sturdy branch to dig. When the wood snapped, I used my hands. I clawed at the frozen earth until dirt jammed under my nails, until my fingertips were raw and bloody. I didn't care. I wasn't going back. Night fell, bringing a biting wind. I gathered brush to block the entrance of my small cave. Huddled in the dark, I cradled a small rabbit I had managed to catch. Hunger gnawed at my stomach, but I couldn't bring myself to eat it. When spring comes, I thought, shivering, I'll give it to Tony. He's always wanted a pet. Two days passed. Starvation drove me out of the burrow. I headed toward the riverbank, hoping to spear a fish. That was when I saw it. High up in a tree, snagged on a branch, hung a small shoe. It was faded, water-stained, but I knew it instantly. It was the shoe Tony had worn that summer I forced him to catch fish with me. The memory clawed at my throat—my brother, who was terrified of water, wading in because I told him to. A sense of foreboding seized me. I clutched the rabbit tighter to my chest, intending to give it to him today. I needed to see him. I hadn't even reached the house when a figure burst from the direction of our courtyard. Dylan Finch. He was running erratically, stumbling as if drunk, his face pale with terror. "Mr. Finch!" I called out, panic rising. "Did you just come from my house? Is Tony there?" Dylan froze when he saw me. He looked like he'd seen a ghost. He shook his head violently, his eyes darting around. "No! I don't know anything! Don't ask me! I didn't see it!" He shoved past me, weaving and staggering down the path. My heart hammered against my ribs. I sprinted toward the house, screaming Tony's name. Silence answered me. I rushed into the courtyard and stopped. The world tilted on its axis. Tony lay in the center of the yard, surrounded by a widening pool of crimson. The rabbit dropped from my hands and scurried away. I fell to my knees beside him. The blood was still warm. The tendons in his small wrists had been severed, the flesh laid open in a gruesome display. I had been wrong about one thing. Tony didn't listen to Mom the most. He listened to me. He was terrified of bugs. He hated them. Yet, staring at the horrific wounds on his wrists, I realized what had happened. He had been playing the game I taught him. The Worm Game. He had tried to pick out the "worms" jumping in his wrists—his own exposed tendons. A scream tore from my throat, shattering the silence of the courtyard. I had brought shame upon my mother. And now, I had killed my brother.

I killed Grandma. I killed my little brother. I am a monster. They were right all along. I pried the fruit knife from Anthony's cold fingers. I didn't want the bug in my wrist anymore, either. I had to dig it out. "Tony!" The scream shattered the air. Before the blade could even touch my skin, Mom barreled in from the yard. She slammed into me, sending me sprawling into the dirt, and scooped my brother's lifeless body into her arms. "My Tony... You killed him! You killed my Tony!" Her wails turned into hoarse, broken sobs. "You monster! Why didn't you just die on the mountain? Why did you have to come back and destroy him?" She cried until her voice gave out, her screams fading to a low, keening whimper. "Tony said he was going up the mountain to bring you apples... He even begged me to buy you new clothes. Are you worthy?" Only then did I notice what she clutched in her other hand. A pink, cotton-padded jacket. Identical to the one the river had swallowed years ago. Mom snatched the fruit knife from my grip. With a feral scream, she slashed the jacket—the one I had dreamed of for so long—into ribbons. Then she stood, her eyes burning with murderous light. "You pay with your life! You die for my Tony!" She raised the blade and lunged for my chest. I didn't flinch. Good. If I die, I can catch up to Anthony. A shadow blurred in my periphery. Dad slammed into Mom, knocking her off course. The blade missed my heart, slicing a jagged line down my arm instead. Pity. Still alive. Wait for me, little brother. Just a little longer. For the first time in my life, Dad stood between us, shielding me. "Are you crazy, Isabel? How could Cathy possibly hurt Tony?" "It was her! Have you forgotten? She taught him that sick game! She told him to pick the bug out of his wrist!" "Tony promised me he wouldn't play that game anymore! He wouldn't kill himself!" "Didn't you see her holding the knife just now? This bitch killed him!" Mom charged again, blade flashing. Dad kicked her back. He stood his ground, desperate to deflect the narrative. "I saw Dylan Finch!" Dad shouted, voice cutting through the chaos. "I just saw him running out of the house in a panic. It must have been him!" A cold laugh escaped me. I looked up at the man protecting me—the man lying through his teeth. "Dad." My voice came out hollow. "How long are you going to keep pretending?" I met his eyes. "You killed Tony."