I Became The Family Scapegoat

“When you go in, throw yourself on the floor and scream as loud as you can, got it?

“If no one leaves, spit in their food. Shove their heads down into their soup. That’ll make them so uncomfortable they will have no choice but to leave.

“If that still doesn’t work, flip the table. Send the food flying everywhere. With everything on the floor, they’ll have no choice but to go.”

My father and mother, Jack Bennet and Susan Bennet, were calmly teaching me how to be the worst kid in the restaurant so I could drive the other customers out.

That way, we would not have to wait for a table. We could just walk right in and eat.

However, each time I did as I had been told, I was the one who got beaten and yelled at. I was the one who received the looks of disgust from everyone around me.

I did not want to be treated like that again.

I gathered my courage to speak up.

“But the teacher said that shouting in public is bad behavior. It’s wrong to do that.”

For a brief moment, Mom and Dad’s expressions stiffened. Then, their faces hardened again and started scolding me.

“How could you be so selfish? You only think about yourself!

“We came here because this is the one thing your sister wanted after winning her figure skating championship. Can’t you even do something this small for your twin sister?”

Their accusations stung. Still, something about it felt wrong. I mumbled, “Couldn’t we just wait until the other customers finish eating? Why do we have to chase them out?”

Before I could finish, my sister, Maggie Bennet, cut in with a sneer.

“Oh, please. Stop pretending this is about morals. You’re just scared of getting hit again, aren’t you? What a coward. No wonder everyone in the neighborhood hates you.”

“That’s not true,” I blurted out, trying to defend myself.

People hated me because Dad told me to take over parking spaces and Mom made me mess with the elevator buttons. They always blamed everything on me afterward. That was why everyone hated me.

Before I could explain, Dad shoved me toward the restaurant entrance with obvious irritation.

“Enough already. You’re just a kid. No matter how angry people get, they can’t really do a thing to you. Now, get in there and do your job.”

Instinctively, I tried to escape. I turned my feet toward the street.

I saw Dad raise his fist. There was a dangerous look written all over his face.

Memories of what happened the last time I fought back crashed into my mind. I shivered.

I had no choice but to accept my fate. I walked into the restaurant and let out a loud, piercing scream.

“AAAAAHHHH!”

Hearing the noise, a waitress hurried toward me. Instinctively, my voice dropped.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dad standing outside the glass doors. His face was dark. He was pulling the belt from his trousers.

Terror jolted through me. I dodged past the waiter and went through the motions Dad had drilled into me. I leaned over the nearest table and spat into a bowl of corn and pork rib soup.

“Ahh!”

A female customer’s shriek rattled my skull.

“Whose boy is this? Somebody control him!”

A male customer’s roar echoed through the restaurant.

I looked toward the entrance with the hope that my parents would come get me out of there.

However, they had their backs to me. They were gathered around Maggie, laughing and chatting like nothing was happening inside the restaurant.

The man shouted three times. He was loud enough for employees from neighboring stores to poke their heads out and look, but my parents still did not turn around.

I lowered my head in disappointment.

“Listen here, you little brat, since your parents aren’t around, I’ll teach you some manners myself!”

He stormed toward me with anger on his face.

Once, I had followed Mom’s commands and taken a neighbor’s seven-year-old duck home to make soup. The neighbor had slapped me ten times. I could still feel the sting.

I instinctively wanted to run.

Unfortunately, I did not notice a waiter carrying a scalding hot clay pot behind me.

The moment I spun around, my head slammed into its edge.

“Hey!”

The waiter cried out in shock as the pot slipped from his hands and crashed down onto my head.

“Aahhh! It hurts!”

The scalding clay pot split the skin on my forehead in an instant. Boiling soup splashed into my left eye. The searing pain forced my eyelid shut.

My right eye turned toward my parents outside the entrance. I was hoping they would come inside and carry me to the hospital.

At the sound of my screams, Mom finally started to turn around, but Dad quickly stopped her.

My hope vanished.

I no longer wanted them.