I Make My Parents Pay

I was just eighteen years old when I died inside the Scott family villa's dog cage. The rain outside the iron cage poured heavily, drowning out the Tibetan Mastiff's bark. When that dog lunged at me, I could still hear Yolanda Scott's laughter, saying, "Sister, Black Ball has been hungry for three days—just consider it feeding him." My arm was torn open, blood mixed with rainwater seeping through the gaps at the bottom of the cage, sticky and grimy. The next time I regained consciousness, I was in the hospital morgue. Morgan Scott and Mary Lewis stood beside me. Mary wiped her tears with a handkerchief, but there was no trace of sorrow in her voice: "Luckily, the heart is still usable. Yolanda is waiting for a lifesaving transplant." Morgan Scott nodded, clutching the organ donation agreement. The pen he used to sign twirled between his fingers. "Don't let the Lincoln family come over. It'll only cause trouble." I floated in midair, watching them finish signing the papers, watching the nurse place my heart into the thermal box. Then I saw James Lincoln and Linda Clark rush in. Linda collapsed beside the mortuary table, crying so hard she nearly fainted: "My Blair, how could they do this to you!" James Lincoln tried to hold me, but was stopped by a security guard. Morgan Scott stepped forward, his voice cold as ice: "You abused my daughter and still have the nerve to come here?" After that day, the internet was flooded with insults aimed at the Lincoln family. Some said James Lincoln and his wife kidnapped the Scott family's daughter and abused her; others claimed they were greedy and refused to return me to my biological parents. Linda Clark could no longer bear the curses and drank pesticide at her own doorstep. When James Lincoln found her, the pesticide bottle was still clenched in her hand, the label on the bottle crushed and wrinkled. After arranging Linda Clark's funeral, he hanged himself in Blair Lincoln's room. I stared at their bodies; my soul felt like it was submerged in ice water, unable to even produce a sound of crying. Later, Mary Lewis gave an interview and said in front of the camera, "We searched for Blair for eighteen years, but never expected she would be corrupted by such people, to the point of not even recognizing her own biological parents." Yolanda sat beside her, her eyes red: "If sister were willing to come back, I would give her everything, but she..." They portrayed themselves as pitiful victims, nailing me and the Lincoln family to the pillar of shame. I thought I would drift forever until I saw Morgan Scott pour my ashes into the trash can. When I opened my eyes again, I was lying on the Lincoln family's bed, and outside the window, the chickens had just crowed. Linda Clark came in carrying a bowl of corn porridge. Seeing that I was awake, she quickly put the bowl down: "Blair, what's wrong? Did you have a nightmare?" I touched my arm; it was smooth, without a single wound. The calendar on the wall showed June 18, 2023—the very day Morgan Scott and Mary Lewis came to recognize their kinship. The sound of a car came from outside the courtyard gate. Linda Clark's hand paused, a flicker of panic in her eyes: "They still come." I threw off the quilt and got out of bed, my heart pounding not from fear, but from hatred. In this lifetime, I will no longer allow them to harm even the slightest bit of the Lincoln family. A black Mercedes was parked outside the courtyard gate. Mary Lewis wore a dress and high heels; when she saw me, her eyes reddened. She hurried forward, trying to grab my hand: "Blair, I am your mother!" I took a half step back, evading her hand. In my previous life, I was deceived by her gentle demeanor, believing I had found my biological mother, believing at last I had a complete family. But what was the result? I looked at Mary Lewis, my voice as cold as ice: "You have the wrong person." Mary Lewis's hand froze midair, her expression stunned: "Blair, how can you say that? I am your mother!" Morgan Scott stepped out of the car, dressed in a suit, his hair impeccably combed, his gaze toward me heavy with entitled arrogance: "Child, we have searched for you for eighteen years. The DNA test was done long ago. You are our daughter." I turned to look at James Lincoln and Linda Clark; they stood behind me. Linda's hand clenched the corner of her apron so tightly that her knuckles went white. I walked over, took their hands, and said in a soft yet resolute voice, "I have a father and mother; they are right here." James Lincoln was momentarily stunned, then shielded me behind him and said to Mr. Scott, "Mr. Scott, Blair has been our daughter for eighteen years. She doesn't want to leave with you, so please don't force her." Mary Lewis grew anxious, tears streaming down immediately. "Blair, do you blame us? Blame us for not finding you sooner?" "We have never stopped searching for you all these years. If it weren't for Yolanda being ill, we would have..." She stopped halfway, as if she had accidentally let something slip.