Plot Twists Short Stories & Scumbag Biological Family Novels

When I was six, I eagerly asked Mom when she was going to give me a little sister. Her heart softened, and she said yes. But on the day she gave birth, she suffered an amniotic fluid embolism and died on the operating table, along with my unborn sister. From then on, Dad hated me with everything he had. He screamed at me hysterically, "If you hadn't kept begging for a sister, your mom wouldn't be dead! Why couldn't it have been you instead?" I knelt on the floor, sobbing out an apology. "I'm sorry, Dad! I was wrong! I'll never want a little sister again!" Dad stormed out and slammed the door behind him. He never came back. After three days without food, I called and begged him to bring me something to eat. He sounded completely fed up. "Isn't there flour in the kitchen? Eat some flour. You'll live." I couldn't find any flour, only a small bottle of powder. So I ate that. Soon, a twisting pain tore through my stomach. I collapsed, and everything went dark. Trembling, I made one last call to Dad. The moment he picked up, I smiled through my tears. "Dad, I think I can go be with Mom now..."

I was the biological son the Rhodes family had spent years searching for. Upon our reunion, all I wanted was to feel accepted. I learned to agree with everything they asked of me, no matter how unreasonable it sounded. Whenever they gave me an order, I followed it. I never questioned them. One afternoon, Reagan Rhodes, the boy who had lived as the Rhodes family's son in my absence, glanced at me and snarled in disgust. "You smell awful. Why don't you get inside the sterilization chamber and disinfect yourself?" I turned toward the industrial machine without hesitation. I stepped inside the chamber, closed the door behind me, and started the machine. My mom discovered me before it was too late. In a panic, she forced the door open and pulled me out herself. My entire body was burning, and my skin had turned an alarming shade of red. Jasmin Rhodes, my older sister, showed no sympathy when she saw me. Instead, she was visibly irritated. "Who are you trying to fool with this act? If you're serious about dying, just take an entire bottle of sleeping pills." I remembered every word. That night, I found a bottle of sleeping pills and swallowed it whole. Jasmin eventually kicked open my bedroom door. By then, I was no longer breathing. She stood frozen beside the bed, staring at my cold body while her hands shook uncontrollably. Some time later, Reagan slipped and scraped his leg. It was a minor injury, yet Jasmin immediately lost her temper with me. "If that leaves a scar on Reagan's leg, you'd better be ready to cut a piece of flesh off your own thigh to make up for it!" I grabbed a shard of broken glass nearby, pressed its sharp edge against my thigh, and cut into my flesh. My parents rushed inside moments later, screaming in horror at the sight of this. Jasmin threw herself at me and snatched the glass shard from my hand before I could continue. "I spoke in a fit of anger! I didn't actually mean it! Why would you even listen to me?" None of them understood what seven years in the mountains had done to me. Back then, defying an order never meant getting scolded or losing a few privileges. Disobedience had only one consequence: death.

Just because I left a window cracked for half an hour, my younger brother caught a cold and ran a raging fever in the middle of the night. Enraged, Mom locked me inside a freezing, thirty-below cellar. "How on earth did I give birth to a cold-blooded monster like you?! You won't be happy until you've killed your own brother, will you?! Since you love the cold so much, get your butt down there and cool off!" Down in the dark, I sobbed and begged Mom for mercy, but the biting cold slowly drained every bit of warmth from my body. Mom didn't care in the slightest. "I'm starving you for three whole days to teach you a lesson! This is what you get for being a jealous brat!" My brother's fever broke the very next morning. To make it up to him, Mom took him on a three-day trip to an amusement park. When Mom finally came back, standing at the top of the cellar to demand if I had learned my lesson, all she received was endless, deafening silence. Because I had already been dead for three days.

On her first day at work, a new colleague uploaded a 500-million-dollar property purchase agreement to the company group chat. The message was accompanied by the caption: “Thanks for the gift for my first day at work, Dad!” She quickly deleted it, following up with, “Sorry, wrong chat!” I frowned, recognizing the contract immediately. It was the same property my father gifted me for my birthday a month ago. Some sharp-eyed colleagues noticed the contract number and chimed in. “I have a relative in real estate. I remember this property. Our chairman bought it recently!” “So, the heiress has joined us to experience life. Forgive your humble servant for not recognizing you!” The chat was soon filled with flattering remarks. Even my stingy and miserly husband joined in. I felt a coldness in my heart and couldn’t help but respond in the group chat, “I recall the president always opposing ostentatious displays of wealth and advocating humility. This heiress seems to veer away from his usual philosophy.” Instead of support, I faced attacks from my husband and others. “Look at you being so poor and petty. How could you ever compare to Grace? Why did I ever marry someone so shortsighted?” “As if you know the president that well! I think you’re just jealous that Grace was born with a silver spoon!” I sneered coldly and, without hesitation, dialed the president’s number right in front of everyone. “Dad, I heard we’re not that close, hmm?”

When I touch someone else's personal belongings—things they have had direct contact with before—I can hear the items voicing their owner's thoughts. The day of my grandma's funeral, I clutch the emerald bracelet she wore for over 30 years and hear it shout, "The house mustn't go to Michael! He hit me!" Michael? That's my uncle's name, and right now, he's bawling his eyes out in front of Grandma's casket, seemingly grieving even harder than everyone else.

I had been in a relationship with Harry Chalamet for ten years. He stood up for me and even ended up in the hospital after a fight. He financially supported me in my education by laboring on construction sites. Even my friends could tell that he was madly in love with me, and I believed it too. Just when we were about to get married, I noticed he often secretly stared blankly at a photo. But the person in that photo wasn’t me…

A hospital's medication error leaves me in a vegetative state. My father, a renowned medical expert, lies under oath to protect the hospital because the doctor responsible is the only son of his longtime mentor. When reporters confront him, he calmly declares, "My daughter has suffered from allergies since childhood. What happened to her is simply bad luck. The doctor did nothing wrong, and the hospital shouldn't be blamed for something beyond its control." The man who destroyed my life walks away without consequences. I lie helpless in my hospital bed, hearing every word. Unable to move anything but my eyes, I turn my gaze toward the euthanasia consent form in my mother's hands.

When my stepsister, Kate Lawrence, is poisoned at the full moon ceremony, my father, Jack Blackwood, condemns me at once, convinced that I am the one behind it. He clamps silver chains around me and drags me into the manor's dark underground cell. His eyes burn hatefully as he snarls, "You wretch! How could I have a daughter like you? Rot in here!" I drop to my knees on the cold floor and try to explain, but the sentence he throws over his shoulder as he turns away snuffs out the last of my hope. "Even if she dies in there, no one shall go in! Whoever lets her out will die with her!" The cell severs the mind-link completely, so no one hears me screaming. Seven days later, he finally remembers me, not knowing that I'd already died on the fourth day when the silver burned through to the bone.