When I was teaching at the university, Brother Lu called me a pervert at the beginning.

Moreover, his left leg was lame, and he walked like a duck that had just learned to walk. If he walked too fast, he would accidentally fall to the ground.

In the morning, he would go to the south side of the village to play cards and have fun. In the afternoon, he would go to the county town to drink. In the evening, he would return home and beat his mother and me.

And today, he acted as always, playing cards in the morning, drinking in the afternoon, and coming home in the evening to gain a tiny sense of accomplishment as a human being through violence against me and my mother.

Perhaps because he lost too much at cards today, or perhaps because he drank too much, he seemed much more irritable than usual.

He kicked the table in front of him so hard that it overturned, scattering the tableware all over the floor with a loud, jarring noise.

When his mother saw his furious appearance, she trembled uncontrollably, and looked at him with a pained and pleading expression.

However, he grabbed his mother's hair and slammed her head against the wall, repeatedly hitting the wall that was already stained with blood.

His mother's pleas for mercy kept stimulating his already active brain nerves.

His next actions were even more brutal and cruel.

I stood quietly in place, looking at the scene before me.

This kind of thing happens every day, and I've long since become numb to it. No, perhaps "accustomed to" would be a better word.

He appeared to be experiencing more emotional fluctuations today than usual.

After gaining a sense of accomplishment from his mother, he walked towards me.

I looked up at him quietly.

I did not beg him for mercy in the same way my mother did, nor did I humbly plead with him to stop hitting me.

Yes, but it was an indescribable calm and serenity.

But my behavior only angered him once again.

Perhaps he was too eager to gain a sense of accomplishment from me.

So he took a knife from the kitchen and yelled that he was going to kill me, you bastard.

Looking at his ferocious face and the knife he held high.

I didn't flinch in fear; I just stood there quietly, watching him look at me as if he wanted to kill me.

Ha, I thought I was going to die like this.

But to his surprise, the cowardly mother pounced on him and shoved him to the ground.

Clang.

The sound of the knife falling to the ground, and his angry roar.

He seemed to have never expected his mother to defy him, the tyrant, so he picked up a knife and chopped at his mother's little finger.

Red paint flowed down the yellowish floor.

The mother also let out a painful wail.

Looking at his mother's terrified and frightened expression, he wore a victorious smile.

He threw the knife aside and gripped his mother's neck tightly with both hands.

He looked at his mother's pained expression and a look of enjoyment appeared on his face.

He seemed to enjoy the feeling of being able to arbitrarily control other people's lives.

I looked at my mother's pained face, which looked like she was about to suffocate.

She stared straight at the man in front of her. This time, there was no fear or dread in her eyes; instead, there was joy and relief.

Looking at him with his back to me, I slowly picked up the knife from the ground.

He came up behind him and stabbed him in the neck.

Instantly, scalding blood filled the small room, which was less than 5 square meters in size.

He clutched his neck tightly, turned around, and looked at me with a shocked expression.

He seemed to never expect that his son, who never liked to talk, would one day stab himself with a knife.

He clutched his neck with one hand and staggered toward me.

His blood-stained hands gripped my collar tightly, his mouth slightly open as if he wanted to say something, but the wound on his neck prevented him from speaking.

I watched him struggle silently until he finally released his grip on my collar, knelt before me, and lowered his head.

By the time his mother realized what was happening, he was already dead.

Yes, that's how he died, at my hands.

My mother held his body and wailed, looking at me with hatred and cursing.

I tilted my head and quietly looked at her.

Is she resenting me for killing her husband?

Or……

She was regretting that it wasn't her who had died.

Behind.

The mother set the house on fire, and his body burned in the flames.

I stopped and looked back at the firelight that shone brightly in the dark night.

In the firelight, I seemed to see myself burning in the flames.

At that moment, it seemed as if an extraordinary person had awakened within me.

Later, my mother took me and fled the small village overnight.

My mother and I moved to a new city and settled down here again.

In order to survive in the city, the timid mother took up an illegal service job.

That small room was where my mother worked and where I lived.

Whenever my mother started working, I would obediently pick up my homework and run outside.

After finishing my homework, I would sit on the ground and quietly look at the tall buildings in the distance, the white clouds drifting freely in the sky, the swarms of ants on the ground, and the children holding their parents' wrists in front of me.

I sat there quietly, lost in thought.

I'm wondering if I've done something wrong.

I shouldn't have killed him; then my mother wouldn't have had to suffer so much.

Unfortunately, time doesn't move backward; it only keeps moving forward.

Perhaps I should do something for my mother.

After I covered my arm and felt a chill, I picked up my notebook and walked towards my room.

When my mother saw me come back, she didn't say anything, but silently took the heated food from the pot and placed it in front of me.

She just stared blankly at me as I ate, as if I were her everything.

The guilt in my heart was as deep and dark as the ocean, giving me an indescribable feeling of suffocation.

There's a voice inside me that keeps telling me this.

You need to do something for your mother.

You need to do something for your mother.

But what can I do for my mother?

Chapter 137 What is the price of becoming a demon? (2)

I've been thinking for the past few days about what I can do for my mother.

Is it helping your mother with housework?

I should buy my mother a dress.

I reached up and scratched my head, feeling conflicted.

I don't know what I should do to help my mother.

When I got home from school, I saw a man dressed in a suit and tie.

He sat in the entryway, putting on his shoes with a cigarette dangling from his lips, muttering curses under his breath.

"Damn it! Your service was terrible this time! So I'm giving you a little punishment. If you don't improve your skills next time, I'll never come back to your store again!"

The mother lowered her head, and that timid smile reappeared on her face.

I glanced at the fresh whip mark on my mother's arm, then turned to watch the man's departing figure.

I think I... know what I can do for my mother.

In the past few days, I have started to follow that man and figure out all his relationships and habits.

I hid myself in that dark corner where no light could be seen, like a cold, venomous snake, quietly waiting for the perfect moment to strike a fatal blow.

So, on that rainy night, I found the perfect opportunity.