The Kind of Obedience That Bleeds

After I fainted that day, I had a long nightmare.

In the dream, Eric would always scratch his own arms whenever my parents walked by, then throw himself into their embrace and sob, "Ronnie hit me again…"

Whenever he saw my sister approaching, he would hurl himself down the stairs without hesitation. Then, with tear-filled eyes, he would point at me and say, "Ronnie pushed me."

Every time even the slightest hesitation appeared on my family's faces, his eyes would redden as he choked back tears.

"If Ronnie still can't accept me, then I'll leave. It's fine if I have to fend for myself."

And in that dream, I was still the old Ronnie—the one who couldn't bear even the slightest injustice.

Every time I was framed, I would only cry and scream in defense of myself. After it happened enough times, I was the one who started to look insane… until the very last time.

To frame me, Eric locked himself inside a room and started a fire. After he was rescued, he insisted that I was the one who had set it.

I completely lost control and threw myself at him, fighting him desperately.

And at that moment, my family finally ran out of patience with me.

Unable to endure it any longer, they refused to listen to another word of explanation and personally handed me over to those traffickers.

Under their manipulation and brainwashing, my family quickly came to believe the lie about "learning discipline."

The contract they signed in place of parental supervision lasted five full years.

When I jolted awake from the nightmare, the first thing I saw was the magnified face of the psychologist.

Faced with the doctor my parents had hired, I cooperated unexpectedly well.

Seeing that I was awake, she softened her voice gently.

"Ronnie, can you tell me why, no matter what people do to you, you never resist? Why do you even hurt yourself?"

I blinked, my tone perfectly natural.

"Because only obedient children don't get beaten."

Those clubs… those torn clothes… those pitch-black cellars…

I had already experienced enough of the price of disobedience.

The doctor stared at me, wanting to speak but stopping herself.

After a long pause, she carefully tried to guide me.

"But you're home now, Ronnie. There are people here who love you. No one will hit you or hurt you anymore."

Curiously, I tilted my head.

"No one hurts me? Then does Eric dumping water over my head and forcing pills into my mouth not count as bullying? Does Alicia forcing me to donate blood not count either?

"Or maybe… even Mom and Dad…"

I leaned slightly closer to her and asked softly, "One second they're holding me and crying, but the next second, even after seeing everything Eric did, they still stand by and watch because they're afraid I'm acting. They even think I'm sick and brought you here… Doesn't that count as bullying either?"

I stared at her.

"Doctor, disobedient people die. I used to have several companions just like me. But now they're all gone. Because they weren't obedient enough… they were beaten to death."

The doctor's hand froze in midair, the color draining instantly from her face.

Later, she repeated every single word I had said to my parents without leaving out a thing.

The final diagnosis was severe post-traumatic stress disorder, accompanied by extreme submissive behavior and emotional detachment.

After the psychologist left, my parents locked themselves inside the study for an entire day.

That was, until Alicia kicked the door open.