Familial Bond 단편 소설 & Bias Karma 소설

Three years ago, on a full moon night, my mother jolted awake at midnight, claiming the Moon Goddess had delivered a prophecy: On the day of my twentieth birthday, the feral gene inside me would spiral out of control. I would shift into a wolf and kill my sister. At first, my parents were skeptical. But after I awakened my wolf at eighteen, my sister would seize up whenever she was near me, clutching her chest and collapsing to the ground in violent fits of gasping. To protect her and force my wolf into dormancy, my parents resorted to every harsh measure they could devise. They poured suppression potions down my throat that ate away at my organs, and clamped a restraining collar around my neck so my sister could keep me on a leash. Eventually, my wolf vanished completely. And somehow, I survived to my twentieth birthday. A flash of joy hit me, and I reached for the cake on the table. My father backhanded me so hard I went flying. "That feral gene in your blood really is impossible to tame! "If anyone eats first, it's your sister. What makes you think you can touch it?" Clara stepped forward as if to soothe things over, but my mother pulled her behind her back, eyes full of wariness as she edged away from me. Then my father dragged me up to the attic and bolted the door shut. Through the door, they said, "Stay put and get through tonight. The prophecy will be broken. "After this, we'll give you half the love we've shown your sister." I sank my teeth into my lip, not daring to make a sound. Years of the suppression potion had already hollowed out my body. My consciousness was fading, piece by piece. Mom, Dad, in that dream the Moon Goddess sent you, did she happen to mention this part? That the one dying today might be me?

My little sister Vanessa was obsessed with werewolf lore, convinced she was destined to marry a powerful Alpha. When Rex, the Alpha of the Firwood Pack, saved her during a riot, she thought fate had finally set its gears in motion. What she didn't know was that Rex saved her simply because she resembled what his fated mate had looked like in her youth— Helena, the Luna of the Firwood Pack. Any sane woman would've walked away. Vanessa saw it as her golden ticket to the top. She secretly mapped out Helena's usual routes, hired outlaws to stage a brutal car crash, and sprinkled silver dust—lethal to wolves—across the wreckage. Her plan? Wait for the esteemed Luna to draw her last breath, then step in as the "first witness who risked her life to help," climbing over the body to claim her place. Vanessa was convinced that once Helena was gone, she'd be the next Luna. In my past life, I snatched the keys before she could move, locked her in her room, and begged her to come to her senses. Rex wasn't some lovestruck wolf from those cross-species romance novels—he was the iron-fisted Alpha who ruled the entire territory. A wolf's mate bond was carved into the soul. If he ever uncovered the truth, he wouldn't just tear her apart—he'd reduce our entire human family to ash. Vanessa nodded through her tears, swearing she'd let it go. But that night, she drove a silver blade straight through my heart. As I lay dying, she leaned in and whispered: "You ruined my chance to be Luna, Eileen. So you had to die." When I opened my eyes again, I was back in the moment she made her move.

My mother, Elena, was a System host. After completing her mission, she left this world, leaving me in the care of my four adoptive fathers in the mafia. Dad Theodore was the cold-blooded Don of the Family, the man who ruled this city's underworld. Dad Harrison was a movie star, the darling of the red carpet. Dad Gabriel was a top surgeon in the underground medical network; his hands could save a life as easily as they could take one. And Dad Zane was a ruthless mercenary leader. For sixteen years, these four fathers spoiled me like the Family's one and only princess. If I wanted the moon, they would have found a way to pluck it from the sky. That was, until three years ago, when Zoe, the daughter of their first love, was brought back from Sicily. From that day on, my four fathers believed only her, never me. Zoe framed me, claiming I'd mocked her for looking like a street rat, so my fathers kicked me out of the princess suite and threw me into a storage room by the garage. Zoe showed them fake bruises on her arms, so my adoptive fathers smashed my phone, cut off all my social connections, and put me under house arrest for three months. Zoe cried again, claiming I'd hired thugs to harass her, so Dad Zane dragged me straight to the Family's dungeon beneath the estate. They starved me for three days and three nights, saying it was to teach me "some manners." I leaned against the dark, damp wall, my vision fading to black in waves. Just as I was about to pass out, I heard someone call my name. "Hazel, do you want to go to your mother?"

The first experiment in the world of retrieving memories after death succeeds, and my memories are going to be broadcast live all over the Internet. My dad has just learned about my death, but he only says in a disgusted tone, "Who would want to see the memories of someone who is selfish, mean, and has nothing commendable at all about them? Today is the wedding day of Zoe and Cameron. Pause the live broadcast and stop being so sickening!" Zoe is my stepsister, and Cameron is supposed to be my fiance. After that, my father finds out the truth from the live broadcast of my memories. He begs for my forgiveness tearfully but… I'm already dead.

At four months pregnant, I went to pick up my prenatal test results with my husband, Aiden Carter, who was an OB-GYN. The smile at the corner of his lips froze the moment he saw the report. Without a word, he grabbed my hand and tried to schedule an abortion. I stood there in shock. The attending physician, Dr. Marianne Cole, had just told me the baby was perfectly healthy! I tore myself free and demanded, "Why do you want me to get an abortion?!" He didn’t answer and had already scheduled the procedure. When I tried to run, he yanked my arm tighter. "There's no way we are having this child!" Clutching my belly, I hurried to call my parents, who were both OB-GYNs themselves. Dad, who had always doted on me, raised his fist, aiming straight for my stomach. Mom’s face twisted in horror, shaking her head wildly. "No, this won’t work. It can’t be like this." "Find a few men. Lock Clara Hart in with them." I didn’t understand why they were so desperate to destroy my child. All I wanted was to escape. Instead, they locked me inside a pitch-black room. When I felt the blood trickling down my legs, I knew my baby was gone. Mom came smiling to fetch me. I fought, demanding to know why they had done this to me. Without responding, she turned around and sent me straight to Ravenwood Asylum. I was tortured to death there. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the very day I went to collect my prenatal report. Aiden looked at me, his face glowing with joy. "Baby, this is our first child. I can’t wait for the day he’s born."

The year I became disabled, my own daughter Emily brought home the ex-husband who had abandoned me years earlier. With his new wife beside him, they strutted into my house as though they owned it. The three of them stared me down and announced a new house rule. "From now on, everyone pays their own eldercare costs." A caregiver had just changed my adult diaper. Emily pulled out a calculator and demanded I pay $150 on the spot for the nursing fee. I looked at the woman lounging on my couch and eating imported cherries, then forced myself to speak. "She lives here too. Why doesn't she have to pay?" Emily clenched her jaw. "Seriously! You think you can compare yourself to Aunt Camilla?" "You made me wear hand-me-downs and live on plain boiled vegetables. Life with you was cheap and miserable!" "Camilla takes me shopping for designer brands and out to fancy dinners. She gives me real love and freedom! They get a pass because I love them. You don't." I stared at the home cardiac monitor beside my bed. I had emptied my savings to buy it when she was sick. "You've always used my illness as an excuse to control me, to torment me. We share nothing but blood. Whatever feelings we had are long gone, and I have no obligation to take care of you for free." Day after day, they schemed and ground me down, until I finally died a miserable death in that hospital bed. Then I opened my eyes and found myself back, years in the past. It was the day I first discovered that my ex-husband Adam had been secretly taking Emily to Disneyland.

My mother is a hospital director. To give my brother, an intern doctor, more hands-on experience, she assigns him as the lead surgeon for my brain tumor operation. I beg her to let someone else do it and tell her it's my only chance at survival. But she slaps me hard across the face and screams, "How did I raise such a selfish, ungrateful child? Your brother has just started his internship—can't you help him improve his skills? Is that too much to ask?" Later, the surgery fails. I die on the operating table. And my mother seems to have aged decades overnight.

The day my biological family comes to take me home, a car accident occurs. My parents and the fake son who had been living my life all die, but my sister, Kayla Bennett, survives. She despises me completely after that and blames the company's bankruptcy on me too. Desperate to make amends, I work over ten jobs a day, giving her every cent I earn so she can buy back the villa that has all our family memories. The day I finally save enough money, I discover my supposedly dead parents inside that same villa, celebrating Dylan Bennett's birthday. My usually cold sister is laughing warmly with them. As they bring out the cake, Mom mentions me. "Today's Nathan's birthday too. We've been punishing him for eight years now. Maybe we should bring him home?" Kayla cuts her off immediately. "We agreed on ten years to make sure he never suggests sending Dylan away again. Not one year less!" I clutch my medical report and laugh through my tears. But Kayla, I'm dying.

As the youngest daughter of the powerful mafia family, the Blythes, I was spoiled the moment I was born. I had three older brothers who adored me. When I turned eighteen, our father was killed in a turf fight. The shock sent our mother into a rapid decline, and she passed away less than a week later. To avenge our father, my three brothers waged war against our enemies for three days. Though they emerged victorious, all three were critically wounded. My eldest brother, Damon Blythe, suffered a ruptured liver and was on the brink of death. Matt Blythe, my second brother, had severe kidney damage. Chris Blythe had lost too much blood and went into heart failure. I spent a fortune hiring the world’s top surgeons. They transplanted half of my liver to Damon, a kidney to Matt, and even gave my heart to Chris, replacing mine with a mechanical one. Thanks to the doctors’ skill, all three survived and went on to take over the Blythes’ empire. Five years later, they became infatuated with Sophia Foster, a poor but strong-willed intern. They even forced me to give up my last kidney to her. It was only after I had died on the operating table that they regretted what they had done.

I was born lazy. At least, that was what my mother told me over and over again. Because my mother believed in modern discipline, she made my twin sister, Sophie, and me wear self-discipline bracelets from the moment we were born. Whenever we slacked off, the bracelet would flash red, and Mom would press a button on the remote, making it blast a piercing alarm as punishment. Sophie’s bracelet was always green. Even when she spent the entire day lying in her room playing games, she would simply smile and tell Mom she had been studying whenever Mom asked. The bracelet would remain quietly glowing green. But me? All I had to do was sit on the couch and rest for a few minutes. The bracelet would instantly flare red, followed by a deafening alarm. At first, I would argue. But Mom always said, “A truly disciplined person doesn’t make excuses for being lazy. If the system has determined that you’re slacking off, then you need to get up and do something.” After hearing that alarm countless times, I eventually believed her. Maybe I really was born lazy. On the night of the Christmas gala, Mom was getting ready to take Sophie to the performance. Suddenly, a crushing pain seized my chest. I could only slide down the wall and collapse onto the floor. “Mom, my chest hurts so badly. Please, help me.” But at that exact moment, my bracelet flashed red. The alarm suddenly blared, drowning out my ragged breathing. Mom stopped by the front door and glanced back at me. “Not this again. Are you pretending to be sick just so you don’t have to go to the gala? You really are hopelessly lazy!” She took Sophie’s hand and walked out without looking back. I lowered my head and stared at the flashing red light on my wrist. Finally, I stopped fighting. Mom was right, wasn’t she? The bracelet was red, so I couldn’t really be in pain. I’m sorry, Mom. In my next life, I’ll learn how to be a hardworking child who never gives you trouble.

There were two famous good-for-nothings the gods loved to gossip about. One was me, Vera, the little princess of the Star Court, with most of my twin starblood ruined, good for nothing but eating, drinking, and playing. The other was my twin brother Orson. His life-fire was broken, and he was unable to stand being anywhere with too many people. But our eldest brother, Theron, was the next King of the Gods. Our second brother, Drake, was the Dragon Sovereign, who held every gold vein of the dragon clan in his hand. Our elder sister, Sylvia, was the heir to the Sacred Spring, the one art that could rekindle a dying life-fire. Our mother was the last High Priestess of the Court of Chaos, born able to carry different bloodlines of the gods. The day the star sea collapsed, Orson and I gave up most of our twin starblood to mend our siblings' fates. They lived. They became the three strongest elders the gods had ever known. And Orson and I became two cripples. Our days were simple: mooch meals off our eldest brother, spend our second brother's gold, and wait for our sister to feed us. That was until my sweet tooth carried me to a banquet thrown for Circe, the woman everyone said would become our eldest brother's bride. At that banquet, Circe, the daughter of House Siren, held up one blurry memory echo and insisted it was me who had climbed into Lord Theron's carriage the night before, stealing her betrothal to the Divine Court. I explained patiently, "You've got the wrong person. That was my brother. And this is my brother too." Circe exploded on the spot. She used her power to cripple me all over again, and nearly killed Orson. "One shameless slut, one useless idiot. A match made in heaven." It wasn't until my brother and I lay barely breathing that my three siblings tore House Siren's wards to shreds, and the whole realm of the gods shook.

My mother-in-law, Teresa Hawke, said she was trapped inside her burning villa. I called my husband, Asher Jensen, begging him to save her. But he was too busy at some bar, flirting with his childhood sweetheart, Melanie Lanner. It wasn't until I begged him, over and over, that he finally went to save Teresa. But Melanie was snatched from that same bar, tortured, killed, and dumped. He acted like none of it mattered until I got pregnant. Then out of nowhere, he threw it all back on me, saying it was my fault. Asher pulled every string he could to bankrupt my family, driving Mom and Dad to leap to their deaths. Then he rounded up a gang of violent psychopaths and threw me in with them. I begged again and again, but he just watched me with that dead stare. "You'll suffer like Mel did before she died! She left this world in agony. Why should you get to live? That's not fair." 99 stab wounds—that was how many it took before I finally bled out and died. And then, I woke up, right back on the day Teresa screamed for help from inside that burning villa.

Five years after my parents, Ian Smith and Sophia Wright, get divorced, I run into Dad at school. He has just finished attending a parent-teacher conference for his stepson, Eugene Moore, who ranks first in the grade, and he's beaming with pride. The moment he spots me, his expression instantly darkens. "Is this what you usually wear to school? Is this how your mother is raising you?" He hands me his business card, his tone dripping with condescension. "Here, take it. Tell your mother that if she's willing to swallow her pride and admit she was wrong, I'll transfer you into the international class right away. In any case, it's better than rotting away in the regular class." I don't take it. In fact, I simply take a step back. "That won't be necessary, Mr. Smith." His brows draw together, his eyes filled with disgust. "You really are just like your mother—a lost cause. From now on, don't tell anyone you're my daughter." I tighten my grip on the paper in my hand and calmly watch him leave. He has no idea that this isn't a report card. It's my withdrawal application, because since Mom died, there's no one left to pay my tuition.

My father was a highly respected criminal investigator, and my mother was the head of the ER, dedicated to saving lives. However, I was a regular at the local police station. I fought, caused trouble, and earned the title of “the most hopeless kid on the block.” The first time, I publicly insulted my newly transferred cousin at school. My father dragged me straight to the police station in front of everyone and had me locked up for a full day and night. The second time, I led a gang of thugs to block my cousin’s way home in an alley. My mother was so furious, she dumped me deep in the mountains, leaving me to be bullied by a lecherous bachelor. The third time, I stole a keepsake from my cousin and tossed it down a sewer. My father put the handcuffs on me himself and sent me straight to juvenile detention. Five years later, I became a key informant in an anti-fraud operation, helping the police crack a major nationwide case. The media rushed to report the story, and journalists packed my parents’ house to interview the “hero’s family.” However, my parents just scoffed over the phone. “Her? A hero? We will only believe she is changed for the better when she is dead.” So why was it that when they saw me lying in a pool of blood after shielding a hostage, they finally cried?

At the Silverpine Pack's annual winter market, Dad bought a Christmas chocolate bar for Chloe and one for me. I accepted mine happily, but Chloe burst into tears. "Why does she get the same thing as me? Ever since she came along, I haven't been your only baby anymore!" Mom immediately took the chocolate bar from my hand. "Chloe can have this one too. You can eat something else later." But I wanted a chocolate bar too. Dad had bought that one for me. I started crying, and Mom suddenly lost her temper. "You've already taken half of your sister's love away from her. Now you can't even let her have one chocolate bar? You're already competing with her for attention at your age. Who knows how selfish you'll become when you grow up?" Frightened, I stopped crying and grabbed the hem of her coat. "Please don't be mad, Mommy. Ella won't eat it." Mom stared at me for a few seconds, but her expression only grew darker. She returned to the stall, bought an entire box of chocolate bars, and shoved it into my arms. "You wanted chocolate, didn't you? Sit here and finish every one of them. You're not allowed to leave until the box is empty." With that, she took Chloe's hand and walked away. Dad did not follow them immediately. He crouched in front of me and stroked my hair, looking uncomfortable. "Stay right here and be good, Ella. Once Mommy calms down, Daddy will come back for you." I unwrapped one bar, then another. The chocolate was so sweet that it began to taste bitter. I had just picked up the fifth chocolate bar when a piercing fire alarm rang through the mall. People screamed and rushed toward the exits. I stayed on the bench. Instead of running with them, I ate faster. Mom had told me I could not leave until I finished everything. I could not make her angry again.

The sales department organized a team-building trip and turned it into a killer-instinct trail race, with a $30,000 prize for the winner. I volunteer with a search and rescue team, and I stayed up all night mapping the safest route with supply points along the way. The new VP they had parachuted in tore up my map right before we set out. "What's the fun in a paved trail? We take the undeveloped Wildman Gorge. That's how you show real killer instinct! "To keep anyone from cheating with GPS, everyone hands over their communication devices." I pointed at the thunderheads on the horizon and tried to stop him. Wildman Gorge floods easily, and going in without radios was suicide. Instead, he smashed my radio to pieces in front of everyone. "You're just jealous that I got to lead this thing, and you want to keep everyone from taking home the prize money, right?" For that $30,000, my coworkers lined up to call me a coward who cared nothing about the team. Fine. I took off my shell jacket and volunteered to stay at base camp at the bottom of the mountain. A storm was coming. If this pack of office wolves wanted to take on a mudslide in Wildman Gorge, I would sit there with a hot cup of tea and wish them a triumphant return.

My twin sister Claire and I have been at war our whole lives. A box of M&Ms? We’d count each one. Making sure we each got the exact same number of each color. Choosing bedrooms meant a tape measure. No one could have an inch more. When we were eight, Claire locked me in the basement. She tore apart my favorite American Girl doll. When I finally got out, I could only cry and gather the pieces. But she just threw herself on the carpet. Screamed that I pushed her. Dad drove out in a blizzard to buy me a new doll. He got into a bad car accident. He never came back. Our whole world fell apart. Mom said we were broke. She couldn't afford to keep both of us. She agreed to let Aunt Susan take one. I killed Dad. It was my fault. I couldn't let Claire leave Mom, too. So Aunt Susan took me. And she never treated me like I was human. From then on, I woke up shivering in a freezing attic. No heat. Forced to shovel snow, scrub hardwood floors. Like a maid. When I got older, to pay off her Vegas gambling debts, my aunt took all my IDs. She sold me off. Gave me to the trailer park manager's son. A drunk. A gambling addict. At twenty-two, I got pregnant. No health insurance. He watched me writhe in pain, but he wouldn't spend the money to call an ambulance. I died on the way to the ER. I died, but I didn't move on. My ghost drifted back home. And I saw the impossible. Dad was alive. He, Mom, and Claire were in the lavish backyard. Celebrating Claire’s graduation from an Ivy League school. Mom paused while cutting the cake. “I wonder how Chloe is doing,” she said. “We tricked her into leaving. I just worry all the time.” Dad pulled up a photo from Aunt Susan on his phone. “Don't worry,” he said. “She and Claire fought too fiercely back then. Sending her away and separating them was for her own good. Look, Susan gets our thousand dollars a month. She's taking great care of her.” So that was it. My parents had teamed up to lie to me. And my aunt was lying to them with a fake photo.

I died on the day I won the Global Medical Doctorate Award. Fresh from celebrating the sixteenth birthday of my younger sister, my parents, brother, and my fiancé finally returned home, but it was three hours after my death. My family photos were beaming with happiness on social media, while I laid in the suffocating basement drenched in blood. Before I died, I had struggled to slide my tongue across my phone screen in a desperate attempt to call for help. My parents and brother had blocked my number. Only my fiancé answered my call. The moment his voice came through, he snapped, "Winona, Winnie's sixteenth birthday is important. Stop trying to hijack attention with your pathetic excuses. Enough with the theatrics!" It murdered my last spark of survival. In that electronic death rattle, my heart flatlined. The 100th time they chose her. The 100th time they abandoned me for her. But it was also the last time. They thought I had ran way to get their attention again, and that if they taught me a harsh lesson, I would come crawling back pathetically. But not this time. Because I didn't leave home. I had been lying in the basement of my house.

The day I got my acceptance letter from Aldercrest University, I saw myself seven days into the future. "After Mom and Dad saw that Aldercrest took me, were they proud of me? "Did Cameron and Evan finally stop saying I couldn't measure up to Tessa in any way?" I couldn't keep the hope out of my voice. What answered me was a bitter laugh. "No. "When they found out Aldercrest accepted me, Tessa couldn't handle it and ran away from home. "She was gone all night, and the family spent that whole night blaming me. For showing off. For not applying to the same school as her. "After they found her, Mom and Dad took us on a trip to cheer her up, and we ran into a mudslide. "Every one of them abandoned me to protect Tessa, right when I was about to be rescued." Her voice faltered, and grief came over her face. "They rushed a frightened Tessa to the hospital, never knowing I'd already been dead for twenty-four hours. "You've seen how I end up. Whether you tell them is up to you."

At the Halloween Carnival, my younger brother and I got separated. Not long after, the headless body of a teenage boy was found in an alley. My father was consumed with rage—he blamed me entirely. He locked me in the chapel and forced me to chant prayers and light candles for my brother's soul for eighty-one days and nights. After that, he had me sold to a brothel in the city's red-light district, so I could spend the rest of my life atoning for my brother. He instructed the brothel manager there to give me only the most depraved clients—and to make sure I was left barely breathing. The brothel manager, paid to follow orders, assigned me to women with twisted tastes. Night after night, I was tormented. When I came down with consumption, I was denied any care. The hands I'd once used to turn pages—the hands of a scholar—were deliberately broken, crushing whatever hope I had left for the future. Eventually, one client went too far, and I died on the bed. The brothel manager had my body rolled up in a straw mat and dumped in a mass grave outside town. A year later, on New Year's Eve, my brother came back.