“Don’t be afraid. I just wanted to see if your wound healed.” I said, grabbing her wrist and touching the scar she made.
Fear flashed in Beatrice’s eyes. “What are you doing?”
“I’ll show you what real pain feels like!”
I twisted my arm.
The sharp crack of bones echoed. A medical senior once taught me this; how to use little force to cause the most pain. It was my first survival lesson.
“Ah!” Beatrice screamed hysterically.
My mother pushed me away hard. “Elena! You’re crazy!”
Beatrice fell into her arms, crying, “Mom... my hand... it’s broken…”
“Beatrice just had surgery! How could you do that to her!” my mother shouted in anger and fear.
Looking at the fake family of three, I suddenly felt happy. In that correctional school, only the strong survived.
They taught me to make bullies suffer more than I did. That night, Beatrice was sent to the hospital with a broken wrist.
The doctor said she was in shock and needed rest and sunshine. So my parents came home and ordered me around.
“Beatrice isn’t well, so she’ll stay in your room. It has the best sunlight for her recovery.”
“Where will I sleep then?”
My mother said without thinking, “The basement storage room can be cleaned and used.”