"He begged".

"I remember that part too clearly—because even now, begging makes my skin crawl."

"He dropped to his knees in front of my mother, hands shaking, voice breaking, swearing on God, on me, on the air he breathed. He said my name like it was a shield. Like using me would make him cleaner".

"But she didn’t listen.Not this time".

"Not after seeing him with that woman".

"Not after seeing the children.

Not after realizing that while she was bleeding herself dry building a future in his name, he was enjoying another life—another family—behind her back".

"I watched my mother that night.

She wasn’t screaming.

She wasn’t crying".

"She was terrifyingly calm".

"And that calm killed him".

"Because when begging failed, something ugly snapped inside him.

First came the rage — violent, wounded pride clawing for control.

Then the fear — fear of losing the money, the comfort, the life he had stolen from her while she bled herself dry to build it."

"And then… the knife."

"I was right there when he slit her throat."

"I saw it through the window — the sudden movement, the flash of metal, the way her body stiffened in shock. For a moment, my mind refused to accept what my eyes were seeing. It felt unreal. Like my brain was lagging behind reality."

"Then I ran."

"I don’t remember touching the ground. I don’t remember breathing. I only remember my heart slamming against my ribs as if it was trying to escape. My brother froze behind me for a second — unable to digest what he had just witnessed — before stumbling after me."

"We were stopped by that hoe".

"Of course she couldn’t stop both of us. My brother was nineteen. I was fourteen. She managed to grab only one."

"He reached our mother just as her blood spilled everywhere—warm, vivid, unforgiving. It splashed onto his shirt, his hands, his face. He froze, staring down at her as if his mind expected her to scold him for making a mess."

"Blood kept pouring from her neck."

"She was already gone."

"I stood there, unable to scream, unable to move, watching my brother collapse beside her. He cradled her like a child, rocking back and forth, calling her name again and again.

He was trying to put her head… together".

I heard a shallow gasp beside me.

I took her hand in mine, rubbing her palm slowly, grounding you even as I was unraveling.

I paused while speaking.

Not because I was tired — but because continuing felt like tearing open something that never healed. But i decided to continue. I can't reopen this wound again to tell her about my past.

"For once and for all, you need to know this. So you never ask about my past again".

"Not long after, I broke free from that bitch’s restraint and ran again".

"I wasn’t running to my mother".

"I was running to him."

"To my father."

"I wanted to hit him. I wanted to scream at him. I wanted him to look at me and see what he had done. I did manage to punch him once before hands dragged me away, voices shouting, the world dissolving into chaos".

I fell to the floor.

"From there, I watched my brother still holding our mother, refusing to let go, whispering her name like saying it enough times would bring her back".

That image never left me.

"My mother."

"She was always there. Every day. Every moment. She filled our lives with her presence. And she died like this — suddenly, violently, without warning".

"I never wished for her death. But if I ever had to wish for it, I would have wished she lived long enough to see my children. Their children, if fate allowed. I would have wished her a death at a ripe age — after enduring happiness, after living fully."

"Sometimes I still imagine her being alive."

"I trick my brain into believing she’s just somewhere outside… that she’ll return soon."

I pause to take a shallow breath.

"It’s okay," you said softly. "You don’t have to tell. I understand. Please… take rest."

Her hand rubbed my shoulder gently, and for a moment, the pain loosened its grip. Peace seeped in — dangerous, addictive peace. I leaned into that touch without thinking.

This.

This is what I want.

This is what I meant when I said that if I ever had to use my own gut-wrenching story — my worst nightmare — as a sob story to earn even the smallest fraction of her affection, attention, or sympathy, I would.

I would fucking do it.

But the process is brutal.

Narrating it feels like witnessing it all over again — every sound sharper, every image cruelly vivid.

"No," I said finally. "You have to listen. Because I can’t bring myself to tell this again. I can’t survive reliving it twice."

"It’s fine. I don’t need to know anymore."

That wasn’t acceptance.

That was escape.

She had finally understood how brutal it was, how deep the rot went, and now she wanted to back away—to spare herself. To save herself. But wasn’t this what she asked for? Didn’t she want the truth?

I wasn’t stopping.

"Then i was stabbed. My wound bled as I clutched it. And then I heard metal crash against my head."

The sound still rings in my head.

"I tried to look at my brother again… only to find him lying limp on the floor."

I paused only for breath.

"After we woke up, everything turned into a blur. Hospitals. Sirens. Faces I didn’t recognize. We were hospitalized."

I laughed bitterly.

"But so was that father of mine. The difference?"

"We were cuffed to the hospital beds. Arrested. Accused in a murder case."

It felt absurd at first. Almost laughable—that they suspected us. But the story they built… that was something else entirely.

"We were framed. Perfectly."

I watched her carefully as I spoke, but I didn’t soften my tone.

"The police found nudes of a helpless girl in our system. According to the charges, my brother was blackmailing one of them."

My jaw tightened.

"We were told our parents found out. That they were devastated. That they tried to discipline us—put some sense into us."

I scoffed.

"So we killed our mother. And our father narrowly escaped my attack."

I looked at her then.

"That was our registered crime."

There was no way out.

"In the eyes of the law, we killed our mother and assaulted a minor."

A cage sealed shut.

"Even that girl admitted to it."

The case exploded. Media. Headlines. Judgment.

"My brother received the death penalty. I was sentenced to jail."

A pause.

"It was a gone case."

Then—

"That’s when my mother’s side of the family stepped in."

My uncles.

"They didn’t ask us a single question. They didn’t speak to us even once before that. And suddenly, they were fighting our cases like their lives depended on it."

They overturned the death sentence. Reduced ours.

"After ten years, we were released."

But prison doesn’t end at the gates.

"During those ten years, we built connections. Criminal ones."

I didn’t hide the truth.

"My brother chose the mafia."

A breath.

"And I chose to be his shadow. One purpose bound us. And tgat is Revenge."

I tilted my head slightly.

"We divided it."

"I would handle Yamini. He would handle the girl."