Sent to the Devil's Village My Parents' Darkest Betrayal

It's me. It's Sal. I'm Sal.

The Chief went still.

"What're you trying to say, kid?"

I dipped my fingers in the herb juice and reached for the wall—

The cellar door yanked open.

My parents walked in, all smiles, a phone cradled between them, already talking about taking Jean for Japanese food that weekend.

"Our baby girl loves king crab. You'd better not disappoint her." My mother's voice was warm, coaxing.

My father was grinning ear to ear.

"Relax, honey. I booked the table days ago."

"After dinner, we'll take her to that new movie she wants to see."

Jean's bright laughter rang out from the phone speaker.

A family of three, picture-perfect and warm.

I hadn't eaten in over a day. My stomach was hollow and cramping.

My mother noticed me swallowing hard, one hand pressed to my belly.

The smile didn't leave her face, but her eyes went cold.

She scooped a ladle of pig slop from the bucket in the corner and dumped it on the ground in front of me.

"Eat. You were born for this—cheap life, cheap feed."

"Can't let you actually starve, though. What would our baby girl do without you."

The stench hit the back of my throat and I gagged.

My vision darkened at the edges and I collapsed onto my side, gasping.

The Chief's voice was barely a murmur:

"That's not fit for a person to eat."

My mother looked down at him, one slow, freezing glance.

"Mind your own business."

Time blurred. Then the door groaned open again.

Old Dale stepped in, reeking of blood—years of slaughtering pigs had ground the smell into his clothes, his skin.

He stroked his heavy beard out of habit and gave me one flat look.

Then he turned on my parents with open contempt:

"A scrap of a girl like this, and you need me for the job? Insulting. I won't do it."

He picked up his boning knife and started for the door.

My mother cut him off after a few steps.

"You don't want the money, then?"

Dale's face went dark. He fixed her with a hard stare.

Cursing under his breath, he shoved everyone toward the cellar door.

"I don't like people watching me work. Get out. All of you. Out."

He took a long pull on his water pipe, then looked at me, something weary and reluctant behind his eyes.

"Kid, I'm not gonna hurt you."

"You look about the same age as one of ours who left the village. Whatever they're asking you to do, just agree to it."

I shook my head as hard as I could, tears streaming, mouth working but only a thin rasp coming out.

Old Dale had been good to me since I was small. He was a butcher, yes.

But he wrote beautiful calligraphy.

He was the one who taught me to read and write.

The memory pushed my hand forward. I dragged my blood-tipped finger across the ground, slow and deliberate.

But the pain shook through me until my whole body jerked and my hand wouldn't obey—every stroke fell apart into meaningless scrawl.

Dale sighed.

"Girl, I can't make out a thing you're writing."

"Can you talk at all?"

I shook my head, chest heaving with panicked breaths.

If I missed this chance, it was over.

What else could prove who I was?

The birthmark.

There was a crescent-moon birthmark on my forearm. Everyone in the village knew it.

Hope surged through me and I bit down on the cloth binding my wrists, teeth slipping on the wet fabric, tearing until my jaw ached.

One look at that mark and Dale would know me instantly.

He noticed what I was doing.

He set his water pipe down and came toward me.

The cloth was almost off. I was reaching for my sleeve.

My father shoved through the door. His gaze landed on my loosened hands.

His face went stone.

"What do you think you're doing?"

I thrashed and whimpered, forcing out a broken moan, jerking my chin toward Dale, toward my own forearm.

My mother spotted the crooked blood-smeared characters on the ground in one glance.

Her face twisted. She shoved Dale and the Chief out of the cellar and slammed the door behind them.

I watched them go, helpless, and then the slap came. Her long nails tore across my cheek, and the pain was white-hot.

The scratches burned like fire on raw skin.

My mother sneered:

"This wretched girl was trying to send a message."