The Villain I Raised

On my first day inside this book, I knew the six year old kid standing in front of me was destined to become a ruthless villain. I also knew that my hopelessly romantic mother and I were doomed to be nothing more than collateral damage on his dark descent into evil. To stay alive, I intended to keep my head down and lay low. But the brat practically begged for a beatdown. So I adopted a simple rule: a light thrashing every three days, a heavy beating every five. I hammered at him until he finally learned to bow his head. Nobody is born a villain. If a kid acts out, it just means they haven't been slapped into line yet. If one beating doesn't work, make it two. Just when I thought my work was complete, the little jerk turned right around and started wagging his tail at the story's original female lead. I rolled up my sleeves. It was time to remind him who his true master was. 1 My mom fell in love again. This time, her eyes were set on Big Gus, a burly fishmonger who ran a stall at the local farmers' market. The moment she dragged me through the front door of his place, an apartment heavy with the sharp reek of raw fish and damp scales, a skinny, sun-darkened boy burst out of the hallway and shoved my mom so hard she stumbled backward. "Get the hell out!" he shrieked, his neck stiffening as his round eyes widened like a feral pup whose bone had just been snatched. "Both of you, get out! This is my house!" My mom had a soft heart. She knelt down, reaching out to comfort him, only for him to spit right at her feet. Gus hurried out from the back room, wiping his wet hands on a stained apron. He brought a heavy palm down on the back of the boy's head. "You little bastard, where are your manners? This is Sarah. She's your new mother!" "My mother is dead!" the boy screamed, his voice cracking into a raw rasp. "She'll never be my mother!" His name was Cole. He was Gus's son, and in the novel I had transmigrated into, he was the future maniac who would strip my mother and me down to the bone. I watched the spectacle with cold eyes. The book had laid it out in brutal detail. The little creature in front of me would grow up to be paranoid, gloomy, and utterly cold-blooded. He would ruin his own life fighting the male lead for the female lead's affection, eventually landing himself in a maximum security prison. As for my mom and me, his so-called wicked stepmother and freeloading stepsister, our ends were nothing short of gruesome. Yet there my mom was, blissfully ignorant, pulling out a handful of caramels to bribe her future executioner. Cole slapped the candies straight out of her hand. "Keep your garbage sweets!" he sobbed, his voice trembling with rage. "Get out!" I couldn't watch this garbage fire anymore. Before transmigrating, I had trained in kickboxing for a few years. Handling a six year old brat was easier than breathing. That night, once the adults were fast asleep, I crept into Cole's tiny bedroom and yanked him out from under his thin blanket. He was half-asleep when his small body hit the wooden floorboards. Before he could scream, I clamped my palm over his mouth and leaned down close to his ear. "Make one sound," I whispered, "and I'll hang you by your ankles from the old oak tree out front." He glared up at me, terror flickering in his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by stubborn fury. He balled his small fists, looking like he wanted to hurl himself at me. With a stubborn mule like him, words were useless. I flipped him over, pinned him to the floor, and gave his rear end a thorough, rhythmic spanking. I targeted only the softest spots. It hurt like hell, but it wouldn't bruise or break any bones. He bit his lower lip so hard it nearly bled, refusing to cry. He just kept staring at me with those wolfish eyes. The next morning, he bared his teeth at my mother again. I dragged him back into the room and gave him another thrashing. On the third day, he hid my mother's hairbrush. I hauled him over to the old water well in the yard, holding him upside down by his ankles over the dark opening. "Are you going to keep hiding things?" I asked, dangling him gently. "No!" he cried out, tears finally breaking through. "I won't!" "Are you going to be disrespectful to my mother again?" "I won't! I promise!" I pulled him up and set him on his feet. He rubbed his red ankles, sniffling as he scurried away like a frightened rabbit. On the morning of the fourth day, I walked out into the yard and spotted him crouching beneath the gnarled oak tree, systematically poking at an ant nest with a twig. When he heard my footsteps, his entire frame tensed, but he didn't run. I ignored him, going straight to the outdoor sink to wash up. When I finished splashing cold water on my face, I turned around to find him shuffling awkwardly toward my feet. He looked up, his missing front tooth revealing a tiny gap in his pouty mouth. A muffled, nearly inaudible voice squeezed out of his throat. "You... want one?" He held out a trembling hand. Lying in his palm were two crumpled caramels, their wrappers slightly sticky and squished. They were the exact candies my mom had tried to give him days ago. God knows where he had dug them up. I looked down at him from my full height. His eyes darted around, avoiding my gaze, while the tips of his ears flushed a deep, burning crimson. I took the candies, peeled one open, and popped it into my mouth. I tossed the second one right back at his chest. "Consider it a reward." He froze, staring at the candy in his palm before looking up at me in disbelief. Then, with desperate speed, he shoved it into his mouth. His cheek puffed out into a tiny, round lump. The sweetness seemed to make him relax a little, though he still watched me like a cautious stray dog. "Don't you know the rules?" I nudged his rear with the tip of my shoe. "What are you supposed to call me from now on?" He stayed quiet for a long moment, a muffled word struggling to escape his throat. "...Sister." "Wrong." I squatted down, pinching his chubby cheek to bring his eyes level with mine. I flashed him a wide, dangerous smile. "You call me Her Majesty." His small face turned bright red, as if saying those words was worse than eating dirt. I flashed my fist in front of his nose. "Hmm? Got a problem with that?" "Her Majesty," he whimpered, his voice barely louder than the buzz of a mosquito. "Louder! Did you not eat breakfast?" "Her Majesty!" He leaped up like a startled cat and shouted at the top of his lungs, scaring off a flock of sparrows resting on the oak branches. Satisfied, I nodded and strolled back inside with my hands behind my back. From that day on, I gained a tiny shadow. When I ate strawberries, I got the juicy tops and he got the leafy stems. If I laid down on the couch and barked that I was thirsty, a glass of water was shoved into my hands instantly. If I sneezed while soaking up the sun in the yard, he would tear off his faded undershirt and frantically drape it over my shoulders, shivering in the breeze. Big Gus watched this whole dynamic unfold with his jaw on the floor. He pulled my mom aside one evening, whispering nervously, "Is the boy... possessed?" My mom chewed on a sunflower seed, crossing her legs with a sly grin. "He takes after me. We just have natural charm." I rolled my eyes and didn't bother correcting her. Life went on like that, chaotic, loud, and weirdly warm. Outside our house, Cole remained the terror of the neighborhood. The moment he was out of my sight, he transformed back into a fearless little monster. Complaints from neighbors flooded in every other day. Whenever Gus was away, Cole bounced off the walls like an untamed monkey. The only thing in the universe that could make him behave was a swift, firm beating from me. Next door lived a gossipy woman named Mrs. Higgins. One afternoon, right after I finished disciplining Cole, she leaned against her porch rail, cracking sunflower seeds with a greasy smile. She called out to Cole, who was crouching on the ground shelling peanuts for me. "Oh, honey, why are you doing chores for that outsider girl? Shelling peanuts for her? Take it from me, you better keep an eye on your daddy's money. A stepmother means a stepdad sooner or later. Once she pops out a baby brother for you, your father won't even remember your name." Cole's hands froze. His small face dropped instantly, his lips pressing into a thin, tight line. I strode out of the house, slung an arm around Cole's neck, and flashed Mrs. Higgins a dazzling smile. "Auntie Higgins," I called out cheerfully, "I heard Mr. Higgins has been visiting the laundromat downtown quite a bit lately, asking the young widow there to knit him a sweater. It's barely autumn yet. Isn't that strange?" Mrs. Higgins turned pale. A sunflower seed shell caught in her throat, sending her into a fit of violent coughing. "You... you little brat! What kind of nonsense are you spouting?" I didn't back down an inch. I planted my hands on my hips, mimicking her nasal tone. "Just returning the favor! You seem so worried about my family's business, I thought I'd help you look out for yours. Maybe you should run home right now. Who knows? He might already be trying on that new sweater." Mrs. Higgins trembled with rage, pointing a finger at me for a long, agonizing moment before dropping her seeds and scurrying away, her wide hips swaying furiously. Soon enough, the sound of her screaming at her husband echoed down the street. Cole looked up at me, his eyes wide and sparkling, filled with tiny, shining stars. I flicked him hard on the forehead. "What are you staring at? Are those peanuts shelled yet? Next time someone tries to talk trash to you, hit them right back where it hurts. Got it?" "Got it!" he chirped, ducking his head to tear into the peanuts with newfound energy. A tiny, unstoppable smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. A month later, my mom and Gus officially registered their marriage. Because I had started school late, I ended up in the same grade as Cole despite being two years older. Every morning at dawn, Gus would kick-start his rusty, ancient pickup truck to drive us to school, the engine rattling so hard it rattled our teeth. Originally, Cole and I agreed to take turns sitting in the passenger seat. But Cole was as stubborn as a mule. He insisted that the bed of the truck gave him a better view, stubbornly clinging to the metal sides every single day. By the time we reached school, he would hop out, rubbing his sore rear end and limping toward the gates like he had just been thrown off a wild horse. I genuinely couldn't understand it. Were all future villains this committed to torturing their own butts? When I mentioned it to my mom, a thick, padded cushion sewn out of old denim appeared in the truck bed the very next morning. Cole pretended not to care, turning his head away to stare at the sky. But when he climbed into the back, I saw him secretly run his fingers over the soft fabric, a wide grin spreading all the way to his ears. "Pathetic," I muttered. He huffed at me. "Don't you dare try to steal my spot." I turned away and ignored him. During recess, I often saw him sitting alone by the flowerbeds, poking at the dirt with a stick, never bothering to join the other kids. At first, I assumed it was just his natural villainous temperament. Arrogant, lonely, looking down on common mortals. Until one afternoon, during break, I caught a group of older boys cornering him against the brick wall near the gym. They were shoving him around, chanting that he was a dirty stray who had no real mother. Cole stood there with his head down, his knuckles white as he clenched his fists, his face flushed red, but he didn't say a single word. My brain went cold. This was the plot taking hold. The world was trying to force him to turn evil. I slammed my backpack onto the ground and rolled up my sleeves. "Get your filthy hands off my brother!" The moment Cole saw me, his eyes lit up. He threw himself into the fight without a second thought. The chaos was instant. We rolled around in the dirt, throwing punches and kicking wildly. But we were outnumbered. By the time teachers rushed over to break it up, I had taken a few nasty scratches, though the bullies hadn't walked away clean either. The school called our parents. When my mom got the news, the woman who usually cared about nothing except romance lost her mind. She grabbed the heavy wooden rolling pin from the kitchen and ran all the way to the school, her hair wild and unkempt. She stormed right into the bullies' classroom, looking like a total madwoman. She marched straight up to the tallest boy, who towered a full head over her, and jabbed the rolling pin into his chest, spraying spittle right into his face. "You lay another finger on my son and see what happens! I am his mother! Anyone who calls him a motherless child again, I'll break your legs myself!" The entire school was stunned into silence. The principal and three security guards had to physically hold her back to stop her from tearing the place apart. That evening, my mom walked home holding Cole's hand tight. He was crying his eyes out, snot bubbles popping at his nose, ruining my mom's sleeve. But he held onto her hand so hard his knuckles turned white, refusing to let go. At dinner, he did something unheard of. He didn't try to steal the chicken drumstick from my plate. Instead, he kept his head low, picking at his rice in absolute silence. Finally, he looked up. His nose was bright red, his eyes swollen. He stared at my mom for a long, agonizing moment before whispering, "Mom. Tonight's sweet poached eggs... were really delicious." My mom froze. Tears instantly welled up in her eyes. She dropped her chopsticks, pulled him into a fierce hug, and sobbed, "Oh, you silly boy! If you like them, I'll make them for you every day!" Gus sat beside them, grinning from ear to ear, though the corners of his eyes were glistening. I buried my face in my bowl, wondering why the rice suddenly tasted so salty. Who would have thought? The stubborn brat I had spent weeks beating into submission was completely won over by my mom with a simple bowl of sweet eggs. At seven-thirty that evening, Cole slunk out of the house like a thief, his head tucked low as he crept across the yard. I was sitting on the porch eating a slice of watermelon. Watching his shady behavior, I felt a twinge of suspicion. Why was this kid sneaking out in the middle of the night? Was he going to meet someone for a fight? As his big sister, I couldn't let him stray into the abyss. I tossed my watermelon rind aside, wiped my mouth, and quietly trailed behind him. He took a series of sharp turns, winding through the narrow alleys until he started heading up the dirt path leading into the hills behind the town. The further I followed, the more uneasy I felt. This path led straight to the old, abandoned cemetery. Even in broad daylight, most adults avoided that place. Yet there he was, trekking up the steep slope for half an hour, panting like a broken engine, never once slowing down. The night wind whipped through the trees, making the shadows dance like reaching hands. I crouched low in the tall grass, shivering. If I didn't turn back soon, my mom would think I'd been kidnapped. Just as I was about to retreat, I saw him plop down right next to a weathered gravestone. Then, he lay flat on the cold ground. I nearly gasped out loud. Lying next to a grave in the middle of the night? This kid really wasn't wired like normal people. Then, his voice drifted through the quiet night air. It sounded muffled, like a lonely child whispering secrets to the dirt. "Mom... I came to see you again. I'm... doing pretty well lately. Dad found a new wife, and she brought a daughter with her. That sister is terrifying. She beats me up every single day." He paused, his voice dropping even lower. "But... she's not totally evil. And the new mom... she made me sweet poached eggs. She even came to my school and fought the kids who picked on me. Now, nobody at school dares to mess with me. They all dodge me when I walk by. They're scared of her. They call her a crazy witch." He fell silent for a moment before choking out, "And... I called her Mom today." The wind swept through the grass, rustling the weeds around the headstone. "Mom, are you angry with me?" he whispered, his voice trembling with tears. "Because I called someone else Mom... do you think I don't want you anymore?" Hiding behind a thick pine trunk, my eyes burned, and my nose went sharp with pain. So that was why his bedroom light flickered late into the night. He was crying in the dark every single evening. Underneath that fierce, unyielding exterior, behind the boy who refused to shed a single tear even when I spanked him, lay a massive, bleeding hole in his heart. The original novel had brushed past it with a single, cold line: Mother died young. It hadn't mentioned what it felt like to watch a six year old curl up inside a shallow, human-shaped depression in the dirt right beside his mother's grave. The soil in that little trench was worn smooth, stripped entirely of grass. How many times had he climbed up this mountain, lying in that cold dirt just to pretend he was being held in his mother's arms? He chattered on for a long time. He mentioned that Gus bought him a new backpack, that I stood up to the loud neighbor for him, that his new mom looked like a terrifying warrior when she stormed the school... Gradually, his voice trailed off, followed by a soft yawn. After a few minutes, he dragged himself up, brushed the dirt off his pants, and stroked the smooth surface of the tombstone. Then he turned around and began his trek back down. I stayed hidden until his footsteps faded into the distance. Then I stepped out from behind the tree and walked up to the grave. Under the faint moonlight, the carved name on the stone was hard to read, but the human-shaped dent in the ground was unmistakably clear. I stood before the headstone and bowed deeply. Then, I squatted down and spoke to the cold granite as if chatting over tea. "Auntie, don't you worry. Cole is under my wing now. I promise I'll hold back a little when I hit him so I don't break him. And I won't let him go down the wrong path. He's going to grow up to be a good man and take care of Gus. You can rest easy down there. I've got his back." The mountain wind bit through my clothes, making my nose run. I rubbed my bare arms and sprinted down the trail. Halfway down the slope, I spotted Cole's small frame huddled beneath the yellow glow of the streetlamp outside our gate. He hadn't gone inside. He was waiting for me. When he saw me running down the path, he froze. "Where... why were you up on the mountain?"