That morning, I left work early, planning to surprise my brother, but I was stopped at the entrance of the alley by my recently released adoptive father.
It was a dark, damp alley, with peeling paint and the smell of mold everywhere.
He dragged me into a corner, shouting, “You little brat, you dared to call the police on me, let’s see if I don’t teach you a lesson!”
I struggled, but he kicked me to the ground.
He snatched the cake from my hands and crushed it under his feet, the cream mixing with dirt until it looked like a pool of filthy blood.
He beat me until my head spun, tearing my dress into shreds, and in that moment, it felt like I had fallen back into the same hell I once lived through.
When I woke up, clutching my wounds, I ran to find my brother. He was sitting outside a hospital room.
I rushed toward him, crying, “Brother, help me…”
Before I could finish, his hand came down hard across my face. It was the first time he had ever hit me.
He grabbed me and dragged me into the hospital room, forcing me to kneel beside Heidi’s bed.
Clenching his teeth, he shouted, “I didn’t think you could pretend this well! You even bribed that old man to hurt Heidi!”