The Blood-Stained Sour Candy
When I was seven years old, my younger brother went into anaphylactic shock after sneaking a handful of peanuts.
Outside the emergency room, my mother slammed my head against the wall over and over, her face twisted with rage.
"If you had been watching him like you were supposed to be, this never would have happened! You should be the one with a ruptured stomach, not him!"
After that, whenever my brother so much as caught a cold, my mother forced me to eat spoiled leftovers as punishment.
I once prepared an elaborate feast. She flipped the entire table and made me crawl on the floor to lick it clean.
When I said I wanted to study culinary arts, she poured hot oil over my hands.
My father wanted to send me to vocational school to learn a trade, but my mother clutched my brother to her chest and wailed.
"She destroyed her brother's health! She owes him a lifetime of service!"
When I was fifteen, my brother's gluttony cost my father an important business deal. I took the blame without even being asked, and the furious client forced me to drink more than half a gallon of hard liquor.
By the time I was sent home with a bleeding stomach, my father had already scolded my brother. My mother took out her anger on me instead, slapping me so hard my ears rang and my vision went dark at the edges.
"You useless thing! You should’ve choked to death at that table! I get sick just looking at you!"
I coughed up black blood. From my pocket, I pulled out a piece of sour candy that had gone soft and sticky.
It was the only treat my mother had ever given me with a smile, back before my brother's allergic reaction.
I put the candy in my mouth and swallowed it down with the taste of stomach acid. The candy was so sour it made my throat burn.
Whatever came next, I just hoped I would not have to be my family’s garbage disposal again.