Chapter 4

When I opened my eyes again, I was met with a blinding, stark white hospital ceiling.

"Victor! You're finally awake! I was worried sick about you!" Dad's voice immediately rang out next to my bed. "Hey, stop moving around. You've still got an IV line in your right hand."

I shook my groggy head, feeling as though I hadn't quite woken up from my dream.

Dad and I were alone in the glaringly white hospital room. There was no schoolwork and no endless stream of math problems to solve.

My body ached with a pervasive, stinging pain, yet a secret joy bubbled up inside me. So, being sick and hospitalized meant I wouldn't have to do any math problems anymore!

"Alright, Victor. We can't fall behind just because we're in the hospital. Fainting like that is basically skipping school. That'll be an extra two thousand math problems for you."

Dad suddenly pulled an over-the-bed table into place, and in an instant, all my fantasies were shattered.

A thick stack of math workbooks was piled so high it nearly topped my head, and it weighed down on me, making it hard to breathe.

The IV line was inserted into my right hand. A nurse stopped me when I tried to pick up a pencil, but Dad waved his hand dismissively and said, "If you can't use your right hand, use your left! Don't think for a second that being in the hospital gets you out of doing your work.

"Nurse, just ignore him. Kids like him like to put on an act. He needs to be taught a proper lesson!"

I tried writing with my left hand for the first time in my life. However, the words and numbers came out crooked and squiggly, looking like poor, severed earthworms on the paper.

Seeing this, Dad snatched the workbook and slammed it onto the table, shrieking, "Didn't I tell you that every poorly written number earns you 15 extra problems? So what if it's your left hand? Can't you just overcome it and do better?

"Must you always be this lazy? I work my ass off to give you the best life I can offer, and this is how you repay me?"

A loud, droning hum filled my ears, threatening to overwhelm my very will. Suddenly, pressure began to build up in my lower abdomen, and my face burned with heat. However, my leg was injured, and I couldn't get out of bed to walk.

"Dad… can you please take me to the toilet?"

"The toilet? You've barely done any work, and you want to go to the toilet? Over my dead body!" Dad roared at me. "Complete 500 problems first! I'll only let you leave if you get no more than two wrong!"

A sense of despair washed over me. I tried to plead for mercy, but Dad cut me off with a sharp, stern rebuke.

There were still 300 problems left, but I had reached my absolute limit.

Surrounded by nurses and patients, my remaining sense of shame finally outweighed my fear of Dad. With a voice choked by tears, I begged, "Dad, please… I don't want to stay here…"

"Well, will you look at that? The little brat actually has a sense of shame," Dad mocked me with a scoff. "If you'd just listened to me, completed your work on time, and stopped pretending to faint or be sick, you wouldn't be in such a pathetic state. This is all just to teach you a lesson!"

Dad kept on rambling.

Suddenly, a warm, damp sensation spread across my lower body. A foul, pungent odor began to emanate from the hospital bed, and whispers erupted all around, accompanied by the pointing fingers of the passing nurses.

"What kind of parent lets this happen? Letting a child ruin a hospital bed like that—how uncivilized!"

"Six years old and still wetting his pants? Maybe there's something wrong with his head. Honestly, they'd be better off just having another kid!"

Instead of defending me, Dad turned and glared at me, his face twisted in mockery.

"Why are you such a disgrace, Victor Rowland? Don't you feel any shame, hearing what everyone's saying about you? Do you have any self-respect left at all?

"Don't expect me to clean this up! If you can't even control your own bodily functions, then you deserve to lie in a stinking, filthy bed!

"And don't you dare stop! Keep writing! You're doing another thousand problems as punishment for failing to control your bladder!"

I was trapped in the foul-smelling, sodden bedding, just as I was trapped in my own life. I stared at the sharp tip of the pencil in my hand and suddenly felt an urge to drive it deep into my wrist.

At least I wouldn't have to do any more math problems that way.

The next second, a stranger's voice cut through the air. It was a woman.

"That's enough, Mitchell Rowland. Come with me, Victor. I'm taking you home."