Historias cortas y novelas de Substitute Bullying

My dad owned a boxing gym. He gave me one rule: If you're right, don't back down. Then I turned eighteen, and my biological parents—Jonah Gautier and Diana Saun—showed up. Apparently, I was the son they'd lost years ago. Dad always taught me to remember what people did for me. They gave me life. That had to count for something. So I grabbed Dad's beat-up canvas duffel and headed to the Gautier estate. Liam, their adopted son, popped up from the couch with a fake-sweet smile. "Troy, rough trip?" I raised the bag. "Nope." Gary, the butler, showed me to my room. An hour later, I came back downstairs. Liam clung to my biological mom, Diana Saun, tears streaming down his face, a handprint bright on his cheek. The second he saw me, he flinched. "Troy, why'd you hit me?" Every head snapped my way. I walked over and lifted my hand. A sharp whoosh cut through the room. Everyone froze. My hand stopped inches from his face. I spread my fingers and held my hand next to the mark on his face. Ten years in the gym had hardened my fists. Thick calluses covered my knuckles, and my hand was way bigger than the handprint on his cheek. "Does my hand look anything like that?" His fingers twitched against his cheek. "Couldn't even bring yourself to hit that hard? Next time, have someone else do it." I dusted off my hands. "When you're done with the performance, let me know dinner's ready."

I stand in the hospital after my two older brothers decline all 99 of my phone calls. They finally appear, bringing with them the biological sister they found. My gentle eldest brother, who had once rescued me from my so-called abusive parents, raises his hand and slaps me across the face. "Cynthia, you're actually pretending to have a terminal illness just to compete with Sarah for our affection? And you came to this kind of place to frighten us?" I clutch my swollen cheek and listen as my second brother, who always says he'll trust me no matter what, holds Sarah in his arms and laughs out loud. "Are you trying to fake being sick to get our attention after seeing that Sarah is in poor health? "Just cut the act. You've been living in luxury since childhood and have always been in perfect health. How could you possibly be ill?" Sarah Crawford speaks up thoughtfully, "Don't blame her, you two. I think she just feels like I've stolen away your love for her, which is why she has become so unreasonable..." I look at the two brothers who have doted on me for ten years and suddenly feel that nothing matters anymore. After all, I only have seven days left to live. In seven days, everything will return to normal after my departure. But by then, they'll be the ones unable to accept it.

I arranged a lavish dinner cruise in Alpha Lucien Grimfang's honor. However, I mistakenly wore the ceremonial gown that had once belonged to his late Luna, Sylvia Wilder. In front of all the guests, his ten-year-old son, Rhett Grimfang, suddenly rammed me into the champagne tower. The shattered crystal glasses left deep cuts across my skin. "Don't think that you can replace my mother just because you're wearing her sacred gown! You're nothing but a dog—obedient and always at my father's beck and call! Don't you dare dream of claiming a Luna's honor!" His cold, scornful expression mirrored Lucien's perfectly. "I can make you leave anytime I want!" I forced myself to look up at the pup I had raised. "Don't trouble yourself. Tomorrow, I'll submit my resignation to the Elder Council and leave for good."

Everyone in the social circle of Kingsford said I was nothing more than a lapdog raised by Charles Mankin. I was always at his beck and call. I did every filthy, ludicrous thing for him under the sun. When he street raced, I rode shotgun. When he drank himself senseless, I made him hangover soup. When he chased girls, I prepared protection for them. Over time, everyone knew: Charles had a dog who never ran, never bit back, no matter how hard he kicked. They all said I must be madly in love with him. Even Charles started to believe it. So he pushed further, more freely, more cruelly, crossing lines as if they never existed. Then came my twenty-fifth birthday. He, in a rare stroke of mercy, said he'd celebrate it with me. But instead, what he got was the news that I was leaving the country. He went berserk, charging through the airport like a man possessed. I peeled his fingers off my wrist one by one, smiling like I'd never been happier. "Don't be stupid," I told him, still smiling. "That was never love." That night, Charles smashed apart his family home like a rabid dog.