chapter 3

I was a child who grew up in the Mental Hospital.

When I was little, my parents fought. My mother screamed that she wanted to die. That night, I thoughtfully added a bottle of rat poison to my father’s porridge.

If he hadn’t smelled something off, he would have died for sure.

My mother grabbed my shoulders and asked why. I innocently replied, “Didn’t you say you wanted him dead? Good children should listen to their mothers!”

When I started school, a boy joked about my sister behind her back: “Her chest is so big, does she have to hold it when she runs? Jiang An, will you become a dairy cow too one day?”

Without a word, I smashed his head with a brick.

I felt no guilt throughout, not even a ridiculous sense of remorse. After deciding I was beyond help, my parents dumped me in the Mental Hospital and never showed up again.

Only my sister was unwavering, visiting me every week.

I doubted her, got annoyed with her, and couldn’t understand her: “Why don’t you give up on me?”

“There’s no reason. You’re just sick, why should I give up?” My sister was small, but she always had her own logic to justify herself. “If you haven’t tried, you don’t have the right to talk about giving up.”

For fifteen years she tirelessly ran around for me, even studying psychology, hoping that one day I could live a normal life.

Sister, do you really think you can save these bad seeds?

It’s useless. Morality only restrains those willing to follow it.

But villains need a devil like me.