I Became His Worst Curse

My mother died of a hemorrhage when she gave birth to my younger brother. My father always said I was a curse, born with a dark fate that brought ruin to everyone close to me. And so, I became his favorite tool for keeping my brother in line. When my brother was little, he refused to eat bitter vegetables. My father didn't force-feed him. Instead, he pried my jaw open and shoved a handful of raw, fiery jalapeños down my throat. I thrashed on the kitchen floor, my throat burning and bleeding, while my brother screamed in terror and choked down his greens, crying hysterically. When we got older, my brother skipped school to hang out at a local arcade. When my father caught him, he didn't hit him. In front of my brother’s eyes, he took my entire portfolio of sketches—the ones I’d spent months preparing for the national art competition—and ripped them to shreds, page by page. I cried until my voice went completely raw. Only then did my brother, terrified, drop to his knees and swear he’d never set foot in an arcade again. And then, the final straw. My brother stole money from our father's wallet to tip a webcam girl on Twitch. When my father found out, he took my college acceptance letter and threw it into the roaring fireplace. As my brother screamed in terror, my father just stood there, cold and indifferent, watching the thick parchment curl and blacken in the flames. “Every single penny you waste, Gavin,” my father said, his voice terrifyingly calm, “is another road I block for your sister. Let’s see if you ever touch my wallet again.” “Dad!” Gavin fell to his knees, sobbing. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! Please, take it out! Save it!” But my father didn't move. He let it burn. I stood by the hearth, watching three years of blood, sweat, and sleepless nights crumble into ash. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just felt a cold, hollow smile pull at my lips. Dad, if you really believe I’m a curse... then I will be your curse. Starting with your precious son.